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FLER  IHOMPSON 


.  V.V.-.\'V\-.\-.' 


^  •'■ '-^^«■x^^^-^.'»^>^■o^>^. 


SKOI 


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Ul^f'Vv 


MEMORIAL 


OF 


Eliza  Butler  Thompson. 


By  her    daughter. 


3>»{00- 


NEW  YORK: 
ANSON    D.   F.   RANDOLPH    &    CO., 

900  Broadway,  corner  Twentieth  Street. 


Copyright,   1879, 
By  Anson  D.  F.  Randolph  &  Co. 


Unversity  Press: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


**  gou  ran,  if  van  taiW,  ht  amanrj  tfje  ht^t  of  inorncn, 
suc]^  as  make  otfjcrs  rjlatJ  tijat  tfjcg  incre  iorn,'* 


11500? 


TJiis  sketch  was  written  with  the  intention  of 
printing  it,  like  the  memorial  of  my  two  brotJiers^ 
for  family  friends. 

OtJiers,  outside  tJie  cirele  of  relatives,  zvho  knezv 
and  loved  my  mother,  and  sJiared  in  the  missionary 
wo7'k  of  her  later  years,  have  expressed  a  wish  to  read 
the  story  of  Jier  life,  and  for  them  it  is  published. 

E.  T.  S. 


CONTENTS. 

— ♦ — 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.     FAMILY    INFLUENCES 7 

11.     YOUTH   AND   MARRIAGE 29 

IIL     THE   HEAT  AND   BURDEN   OF  THE   DAY   .      .  75 

IV.     THE   EVENING   TIME 125 


CHAPTER    I. 
FAMILY    INFLUENCES. 


I. 

FAMILY   INFLUENCES. 

"  That  things  are  not  so  ill  -with  you  and  vie  as 
they  might  have  been,  is  half  07ving  to  the 
number  who  lived  faithfully  a  hid  Jen  life 
and  rest  in  unvisited  tombs. ^^ 

MiDDLEMARCH. 

\  FA]\IILY  connection,  curious  in  such  matters, 
-^  ^  has  traced  Mrs.  Thompson's  ancestry  to  a 
certain  nonconformist  English  clergyman,  Stephen 
Butler,  who  lived  late  in  the  sixteenth  century. 

Of  the  village  where  his  rectory  stood  we  know 
nothing,  and  have  only  scattered  hints  of  the  forces 
that  blended  in  his  mould.  It  is  true  the  same  anti- 
quarian asserts  that  Stephen  and  all  the  Butlers  de- 
scended from  a  certain  Count  Brion  of  Normandy; 
the  name  gradually  changed  to  Boteler;  and  there 
is  record  in  Froissart's  Chronicles  of  the  honorable 
deeds  of  Sir  John  Boteler  in  1342.  He  bore  the 
same  name  with  his  ancestor,  one  of  William's  knights, 
who  came  to  England  three  centuries  before.  The 
only  definite  tradition  that  remains  is  of  the  marked 


lo  Family  hiflitences, 

religiousness  of  the   family.     The   mottoes   on   their 
shields  are  such  as  these,  — 

"Qu^  Recta  Sequor." 
"Mea  Gloria  Crux." 
"Timor  Domini  Fons  ViTyE." 

"  SUBLIMIORA    PETAMUS." 

So  when  it  came  to  Stephen  Butler  to  decide 
between  adherence  to  his  convictions  and  worldly 
success,  he  was  true  to  the  leading  qualities  of  his 
race. 

He  was  one  of  the  two  hundred  clergymen,  in  the 
days  of  Parker  and  Laud,  who  were  driven  from  their 
livings  for  their  refusal  to  subscribe  to  the  Three 
Articles.  It  is  said  that  in  the  sermons  preached  to 
their  parishes  on  the  last  Sunday  before  they  were 
ejected,  not  one  of  these  clergymen  alluded  to  his 
personal  troubles,  but  each  comforted  his  people,  ex- 
horting them  to  Christian  faith  and  patience.  *'  They 
knew  that  they  were  pilgrims,  and  looked  not  much 
on  these  things,  but  lifted  up  their  eyes  to  Heaven, 
their  dearest  country,  and  quieted  their  spirits." 

It  was  on  the  fly-leaf  of  his  copy  of  Calamy's  book, 
giving  an  account  of  these  men,  that  President  Stiles 
wrote,  "  Egregiis  hisce  sit  anima  mea  cum  Puritanis." 

Succeeding  persecution  evidently  did  not  dim  the 
'*  Sublimiora  "  that  Stephen  Butler  "  sought,"  for  in 
1632  we  find  the  name   of  his    descendant.  Deacon 


Family  l7iJliiC7ices,  1 1 


Richard  Butler,  on  the  records  of  the  Puritan  colony 
of  Cambridge,  Mass. 

Richard  Butler  was  one  of  the  company  who  went 
through  the  wilderness  in  1636,  and  formed  the  set- 
tlement at  Hartford,  on  the  Connecticut  River;  and 
more  than  one  of  the  family  lie  in  the  old  burial- 
ground  behind  the  Centre  Church. 

A  hundred  and  fifty  years  later,  Daniel  Butler  went 
up  the  river  from  Hartford  to  Northampton,  and 
established  himself  there  as  a  merchant.  In  1801 
his  wife,  Anna  Welsh,  died,  leaving  three  children,  — 
Charles  Parker,  Anna,  and  Abigail  Welsh. 

October  26,  1802,  he  married  Elizabeth  Simpkins 
of  Boston.  Their  fourth  child  in  a  family  of  seven 
was  Elizabeth,  born  October  4,  1809. 

Elizabeth  Simpkins  was  the  daughter  of  John  Simp- 
kins  and  Mehetible  Kneeland.  John  Simpkins  was 
long  a  deacon  in  the  Old  North  Church,  and  was  the 
last  gentleman  in  Boston  who  clung  to  the  fashion  of 
short-clothes  and  knee-buckles.  The  knee  and  shoe 
buckles  are  still  preserv^ed,  with  a  bit  of  pink  silk 
from  his  wife's  wedding-dress,  remnants  of  her  neck- 
lace, and  her  little  embroidered  wedding-slippers,  with 
the  high  narrow  heels. 

At  the  time  of  her  marriage  to  John  Simpkins, 
Mehetible  Kneeland  was  a  widow,  —  Mrs.  Torrey. 
Kneelands  had  been  known  in  Boston  from  colonial 


1  z  Family  Influences, 

times.  She  was  descended  from  John  Kneeland,  who 
is  supposed  to  have  been  of  Scotch  origin,  from  the 
fact  that  he  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Scots' 
Charitable  Society,  estabhshed  in  Boston  in  1657. 
He  was  a  man  of  wealth  and  mark.  Beginning  as  a 
stone-mason,  he  built  the  Old  South  Churdi  and  the 
old  Hancock  House.  He  was  one  of  the  original 
members  of  the  Old  South.  As  his  fortune  in  real 
estate  increased,  Kneeland  Street  was  named  for  him. 
The  street  extended  from  Washington  (then  Orange) 
Street  to  the  water,  which  then,  in  1777,  extended  up 
to  Harrison  Avenue  (then  Fleet  Street),  and  at  the 
foot  was  Kneeland's  Wharf. 

His  son  Samuel  printed  the  first  Bible  in  Boston 
in  1749.  His  second  son,  William,  the  father  of 
Mehetible,  was  a  physician,  President  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts Medical  Society,  and  a  person  of  note  in  his 
time. 

The  daughter  was  trained  in  a  straiter  than  the 
straitest  sect,  in  what  was  called  Hopkinsianism,  an 
offshoot  of  New  England  Calvinism  in  the  days  when 
the  intellectual  acuteness  of  that  intellectual  com- 
munity was  concentrated  on  theological  science,  and 
everlasting  salvation  was  held  almost  to  hinge  on 
the  framing  of  a  sentence. 

Dr.  Hopkins  taught  that  the  love  of  self  should  be 
so  subjected  that  one  ought  to  be  willing  to  be  lost, 


Fa77tily  Infinences,  1 3 

—  were  that  for  God's  glory  and  the  general  good, — 
and  many  earnest  souls,  through  untold  spiritual  an- 
guish, strained  after  that  superhuman  height  of  holi- 
ness. Mehetible  Simpkins  was  one  of  these,  and  was 
famed  among  the  clergy  of  her  day  no  less  for  her 
piety  than  for  her  theological  learning. 

"  Many  were  the  hours,"  says  one  of  her  descend- 
ants, **  she  spent  with  those  stanch  old  divines, 
Eckley,  Emmons  and  Dr.  Samuel  Hopkins,  talking 
over  the  slow  and  gradual  spread  of  Unitarianism. 
When  the  church  in  which  her  husband  was  deacon 
went  over  to  that  communion,  he  did  not  see  differ- 
ence enough  to  induce  him  to  change ;  but  she  went 
alone  and  joined  the  Old  South,  the  church  of  her  an- 
cestors. More  and  more  the  ministers  used  to  come 
to  seek  her  counsel.  She  was  regarded  as  a  superior 
woman,  a  mother  in  Israel,  a  helper  in  every  good 
work,  feeling  that  every  one  ought  to  know  and  do 
the  right  thing." 

Their  house  was  the  home  of  the  clergy  of  the 
region,  in  their  visits  to  Boston.  They  felt  it  a  sort 
of  sin  and  disgrace  to  allow  a  minister  to  go  to  a 
public  house.  The  children  found  a  certain  relief 
from  the  oppressive  awe  that  surrounded  these  godly 
men,  in  occasional  incidents,  as  when  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Buckminster  was  entertained  at  one  time.  He 
retired,   full  of  the  theological  discussions  that  had 


14  Family  Influe^ices. 

been  going  on.  In  the  night,  disturbed  by  the  un- 
usual noises  of  the  city  street,  he  sprang  up  and 
attacked  the  looking-glass,  imagining  himself  fight- 
ing with  enemies.  The  crash  of  the  broken  glass 
wakened  him  and  the  family  simultaneously,  with 
some  consternation. 

Her  household  management  did  justice  to  the  lofty 
conceptions  of  unselfishness  which  marked  her  theo- 
ries. She  was  a  widow  with  two  children,  Samuel 
and  John  Torrey,  and  with  step-children  when  she 
married  John  Simpkins,  a  widower  with  children,  and 
two  or  three  children  were  born  to  them.  In  such  a 
kingdom,  with  such  provinces,  she  so  ruled  as  to  be 
remembered  by  every  child  with  love  ^nd  gratitude. 
The  nobleness  of  duty  overrode  the  tyranny  of  feel- 
ing. With  her  own  personal  property  she  set  up 
one  step-son  in  business.  Another  son,  John,  was 
apprenticed,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  times, 
to  a  merchant  who  was  to  furnish  board  and  clothing 
while  the  process  of  training  was  going  on.  Finding 
a  sharp  contrast  between  the  old  home  and  the  new, 
John  came  to  her  one  day  desperate  and  determined. 
"  He  could  not  and  would  not  stay !  He  could  not 
bear  it,  no  one  could  !  "  She  was  quiet  till  all  was 
said,  then  calmly  began,  "John,  do  you  have  enough 
to  eat?"  "Why  yes."  "Do  you  have  clothes 
enough    to    keep  you   warm?"      "Yes,    of  course." 


Pamily  Injliiences.  15 

"Have  you  a  bed  to  lie  on  at  night?"  "Yes." 
"  Then  go  back  and  fulfil  your  part.  You  have 
nothing  to  complain  of." 

Fortunately  there  was  enough  of  the  same  sturdy 
fibre  in  the  boy  to  respond  to  the  somewhat  heroic 
treatment ;  he  went  back,  and  lived  to  tell  the  story 
in  days  of  wealth  and  success.  A  gray-haired  grand- 
child ruefully  recalls  an  instance  of  similar  manage- 
ment. He  was  visiting  her  when  a  little  boy,  and 
had  been  promised  as  a  great  treat  that  he  should 
go  with  her  to  the  Old  South  on  Sunday  afternoon. 
He  went  out  to  play  a  little  in  the  garden  beforehand, 
and  when  he  came  in  found,  to  his  bitter  disappoint- 
ment, that  she  had  gone.  She  explained,  on  return- 
ing, that  if  he  did  not  care  enough  about  going  to 
attend  to  the  bell  and  come  in  when  it  rang,  she  did 
not  think  it  worth  while  to  call  him.  She  was  a  very 
typical  New  England  dame  of  the  days  of  strong 
nerves,  few  words,  and  excellent  sense.  She  was  not 
quite  so  tender  as  true ;  but  the  world  perhaps  was 
not  so  universal  a  hospital  then  as  now,  and  the  ex- 
hortation as  to  the  lame  and  those  that  are  out  of 
the  way,  "  letting  them  rather  be  healed  "  than  am- 
putated, might  not  have  been  so  essential. 

In  the  month  of  May,  1802,  a  party  of  clergymen 
and  others  were  dining  at  the  house.  The  conversa- 
tion turned  on  the  wants  of  the  world  and  the  dark- 


1 6  Family  Influences, 

ness  of  the  heathen.  Just  as  one  good  man  set  down 
his  empty  wine-glass  with  a  sigh  over  the  sad  state 
of  things,  Mrs.  Simpkins  said,  with  sudden  courage, 
*'  Gentlemen,  I  have  often  thought  if  every  one  of 
you  would,  for  every  glass  of  wine  you  drink,  give 
one  cent  toward  sending  Bibles  to  the  destitute,  a 
great  work  might  be  done."  She  spoke  with  a  smile, 
but  the  words  were  born  of  long-smothered  ponder- 
ing and  prayer. 

**  Well,  well,  here  is  my  penny,"  said  her  hus- 
band, laying  it  on  the  table,  and  the  others  followed 
in  a  gallant  little  way,  to  humor  a  woman's  playful 
word. 

The  subject  turned  and  the  dinner  went  on.  As 
they  rose  from  the  table,  each  put  the  cent  back  into 
his  pocket,  as  the  jest  was  over.  Just  as  John  Simp- 
kins  took  up  his,  the  wife  quietly  laid  her  hand  over 
it,  saying,  "  No,  my  dear,  you  have  given  this  to  the 
Lofd.  Do  not  take  it."  He  laughed,  wondering  at 
her  whim,  not  knowing  or  caring  what  was  beneath 
the  words. 

But  when  the  moment  for  action,  long  desired,  had 
come,  she  went  to  her  room  and  drew  up  a  consti- 
tution for  a  Cent  Society,  which  stirs  us  yet  by  its 
suppressed  fervor  and  direct  appeal. 

The  original  paper  remains,  and  reads  as  fol- 
lows :  — 


Family  Iiiflttences.  1 7 

"  To  the  Friends  of  Religion. 

**  A  single  cent,  where  millions  are  needed  to  carry 
into  effect  the  benevolent  designs  of  our  Fathers  and 
Brethren,  who  are  engaged  in  sending  the  Gospel  to 
lands  unenlightened  with  its  genial  rays,  may  appear 
at  first  view  small  and  inconsiderable;  but  should 
the  Friends  of  Zion  adopt  the  plan  of  only  one  cent 
a  week  and  recommend  the  same  practice  to  their 
friends  and  connections,  it  is  supposed  a  respectable 
sum,  without  inconvenience  to  individuals,  may  be 
collected  to  be  applied  to  the  purchase  of  Primers, 
Dr.  Watts'  Psalms  and  Hymns,  Catechisms,  Divine 
Songs  for  Children,  and  Bibles.  Mrs.  John  Simp- 
kins  requests  those  who  are  disposed  to  encourage 
this  work  that  they  would  send  in  their  names  with 
their  money  (quarterly,  or  as  shall  be  most  agree- 
able to  them),  and  she  will  engage  to  deposit  the 
same  with  the  treasurer  of  the  Massachusetts  Mis- 
sionary Society,  for  the  important  purpose  of  aiding 
that  very  laudable  institution. 

"Boston,  26  May,  1802." 

Names  of  subscribers  and  places  of  abode  follow,  — 
twenty-three  names,  and  all  of  Boston,  —  and  the  first 
woman's  missionary  society  in  New  England,  prob- 
ably the  first  in  this  country,  was  formed. 


1 8  Family  Influences, 

With  this  constitution  there  is  a  receipt,  dated 
May  30,  181 1,  acknowledging  ''  eight  hundred  dollars 
and  one  cent  from  Mrs.  Mehetible  Simpkins,"  and 
signed  by  "  D.  Hopkins  and  Samuel  Spring,  Com- 
mittee." 

There  is,  besides,  a  little  book,  belonging  evidently 
a  year  or  two  later,  with  a  longer  additional  address, 
stating  that  since  the  organization  of  the  society  it 
had  received  about  eighteen  hundred  dollars.  It  is 
headed :  "  Despise  not  the  day  of  small  things," 
and  closes  as  follows :  "  By  these  inconsiderable 
means  many  Bibles  and  other  pious  books  have 
been  put  into  the  hands  of  the  poor  and  destitute, 
and  it  is  hoped  we  may  still  be  encouraged  by  the 
prospect  of  great  good  in  future,  which  by  these 
small  appropriations  may  arise,  for  those  who  sit  in 
darkness  to  be  brought  into  God's  marvellous  light. 
Clirist  noticed  tJie  ividoiv  s  mite.'' 

The  little  grandchild,  Elizabeth  Butler,  born  in 
Northampton  in  1809,  inherited  in  a  marked  degree 
many  of  Mrs.  Simpkins's  characteristic  traits.  She 
had  the  same  reality  of  nature,  moral  earnestness 
and  persistency  of  purpose,  with  a  certain  soundness 
of  judgment  and  strong  conscientiousness. 

Nothing  is  left  of  the  old  home  on  Pleasant  Street 
now,  but  the  great  elms  and  the  horse-chestnuts 
which  Mrs.  Butler  planted  the  first  season  after  she 


Family  Influences.  19 

came  a  bride  from  Boston  to  Northampton.  Tl;ie 
deep  garden  that  stretched  back  from  the  house, 
where  there  were  such  races  with  Hector  the  dog, 
and  flowers  that  blossomed  from  the  time  of  snow- 
drops till  frost,  is  covered  with  railway  tracks  and 
buildings.  The  house  itself  was  torn  down  last  year, 
so  that  now  there  is  just  the  vacant  green  space 
under  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  Riding  by  in  a 
lovely  May  afternoon,  it  seemed  as  if  the  house  with 
all  its  memories  had  been  buried  under  that  shade 
"  in  sure  and  certain  hope." 

"  How  you  children  would  have  loved  your  grand- 
father !  "  was  one  of  mother's  common  exclama- 
tions, especially  when  some  merry  mood  was  on  us. 
He  is  remembered  as  tall  and  very  stout,  yet  with 
the  lightest  step  in  the  house,  with  twinkling  blue 
eyes,  the  sunniest,  kindliest  temper,  altogether  the 
dearest,  merriest  old  gentleman  who  was  ever  hugged 
and  kissed  and  scrambled  over  by  half  a  dozen  chil- 
dren at  once,  the  delight  of  his  own  little  girls  and 
boys  and  of  all  the  small  people  of  the  neighborhood. 

The  hearty  good-humor  and  love  of  diffusing  joy 
and  physical  comfort,  the  social,  genial  traits  in  the 
household,  were  inherited  from  him.  The  Simpkins 
home  with  all  its  excellences  had  been  a  little 
austere,  and  Mrs.  Butler  with  her  numerous  good 
qualities  had  brought  with  her  a  slight  tendency  to 


20  Family  Influences, 

gloom.  The  lack  of  entire  cheerfulness  and  content- 
ment which  is  remembered  was  partly  due,  besides, 
to  habitual  ill-health.  Always  delicate  and  liable 
to  frequent  illnesses,  with  the  most  exacting  ideal  of 
housekeeping  and  needlework,  it  is  not  strange  that 
with  the  care  of  three  children  at  first,  and  subse- 
quently of  her  own  seven  who  grew  up  around  her, 
her  spirits  should  not  have  been  always  buoyant. 
There  was,  besides,  a  deeper  reason.  While  she  was 
still  quite  young,  her  sister  Sallie,  one  to  whom  she 
was  very  tenderly  attached,  married  Captain  Bur- 
roughs. Sallie  was  always  frail,  and  soon  faded  away. 
Some  time  after  her  death  the  affection  which  had 
existed  between  Elizabeth  and  Captain  Burroughs 
deepened  into  love.  He  had  sailed  away  and  come 
safely  home  from  many  voyages.  There  was  now  to 
be  one  more  to  make  his  fortune  sure,  and  on  his 
return  from  this  voyage  they  were  to  be  married. 
His  parting  gift  to  her,  just  before  sailing,  is  still  pre- 
served ;  a  pair  of  bracelet-clasps  on  which  is  painted 
a  maiden  leaning  in  a  pensive  attitude  against  the 
trysting-tree,  holding  in  her  hand  a  wreath.  Over 
her  head  is  the  motto  '*  Present  or  absent,  ever  dear." 
With  the  paint  was  mixed  a  lock  of  the  sister's  hair 
dissolved  in  an  acid. 

When  he  had  been  some  time  gone,  Elizabeth  one 
night  dreamed  that  she  was  standing  on  the  shore, 


Family  Influences.  21 

looking  out  to  sea,  and  saw  his  vessel.  While  she 
was  still  watching  it,  a  cloud  suddenly  fell  and  shut 
it  out  from  her  sight.  She  woke  with  the  saddest 
impression  that  she  should  see  him  no  more.  After 
a  time  a  returning  merchantman  brought  the  news 
that  confirmed  the  forewarning.  They  had  spoken 
Captain  Burroughs's  ship  just  at  nightfall.  His  vessel 
was  disabled  from  a  storm,  and  they  urged  him  to 
leave  it  and  come  on  board.  He  refused  steadily, 
saying  he  could  not  leave  the  cargo  intrusted  to 
him,  while  one  chance  remained  of  saving  it.  In 
the  morning  his  ship  had  disappeared.  That  sorrow, 
though  it  was  out  of  sight,  tinged  all  her  after-life. 

It  was  the  common  way  of  complimenting  the 
mother,  to  jest  with  the  daughters  and  tell  them 
they  would  never  be  as  handsome  as  she.  Her 
figure  was  tall  and  graceful,  and  her  features  regular, 
with  large  dark  eyes  and  an  expression  of  refine- 
ment. Her  cheeks,  when  she  lay  in  her  coffin,  still 
retained  a  trace  of  the  clear  red  which  never  left 
them.  Her  children  were  instructed  in  household 
arts  with  conscientious  exactness.  The  sampler  v;ent 
with  the  catechism,  for  whatever  the  chief  end  of 
man  was  found  to  be,  the  chief  end  of  woman  was 
to  "  take  two  and  leave  two  "  as  to  threads  in  stitch- 
ing, to  cut  out  garments  with  economy,  and  **  beat 
separately"  the  whites  and  yolks  of  innumerable  eggs 


2  2  Family  Infl2iences. 

for  the  cakes  which  were  the  culmination  of  good 
housewifery.  The  two  housemaids  were  kept  suffi- 
ciently employed  without  being  intrusted  with  the 
finer  mysteries  of  cooking;  and  Elizabeth  was  hardly 
more  than  a  little  girl  when  she  began  to  be  chief 
assistant,  the  one  to  wait  upon  her  mother  when  the 
great  concoctions  were  proceeding,  the  faithful  little 
nurse  in  sickness.  That  she  was  willing  to  be  relied  on 
was  reason  enough,  as  things  were,  why  she  should 
take  responsibility  very  early.  Circumstances  all 
combined  to  develop  her  strong  moral  traits,  and 
duty,  not  enjoyment,  was  becoming  the  law  of  her  life. 
Of  the  three  half  brothers  and  sisters,  Abby  was 
the  one  to  whom  she  was  most  attached.  How  often 
did  she  say,  looking  back  to  her  childhood,  *'  Your 
Aunt  Abby  was  not  so  pretty  as  her  sister  Anne, 
but  she  had  a  strong  character.  If  she  had  lived,  I 
should  have  been  very  different.  She  was  the  only 
one  who  really  understood  me.  She  took  great 
pains  with  me,  talked  with  me  about  my  faults, 
showed  me  how  to  correct  them,  and  used  often  to 
say,  '  Eliza,  you  have  the  material  for  a  fine  char- 
acter if  you  can  only  conquer  yourself  I  loved  her 
dearly,  and  when  she  talked  with  me  about  my  irri- 
tability and  fondness  for  having  my  own  way,  and 
explained  how  to  guard  against  temptation,  I  felt 
drawn   to  her  all  the  more.     I  knew  she  loved   me, 


Family  Influences.  23 

and  I  clung  to  her  with  all  my  heart."  Abby's  fatal 
illness  was  lingering  and  long,  but  the  little  sister 
Elizabeth  was  untiring  in  her  devotion  to  her.  Many 
years  after  some  one  asked  her,  "  How  did  you  ac- 
quire your  wonderful  skill  in  nursing?"  *' I  began 
early,"  she  said,  and  described  her  experience  in 
Abby's  illness.  "  I  loved  her,  and  wanted  so  to  stay 
with  her  and  to  be  of  use  to  her,  I  tried  my  very  best  to 
learn  to  wait  upon  her  in  the  right  way,  and  it  ended 
in  my  being  permitted  to  remain  in  the  sick-room 
almost  constantly." 

When  Abby  died,  it  was  a  deep,  permanent  grief. 
The  child  heart  ached  long  from  loss  and  the  pe- 
culiar loneliness  that  falls  when  one  goes  who  holds 
a  key  to  our  inner  life.  No  after-friendship  effaced 
Abby's  memory.  Fifty  years-  later  she  could  not 
speak  of  her  without  a  wistful,  far-off  look  in  her 
eyes  and  a  shadow  on  her  lips.  A  lock  of  auburn 
hair  was  found  carefully  preserved  in  her  desk, 
marked  "  Sister  Abby,"  side  by  side  with  letters 
from  the  half-brother  Charles,  —  old  yellow  letters, 
folded  square  and  directed  to  ''  Daniel  Butler,  Mer- 
chant." Charles  had  a  passion  for  the  sea  in  his 
boyhood,  which  his  father  opposed  at  first.  Finally, 
by  the  advice  of  friends,  he  sent  him  on  a  voyage 
before  the  mast,  with  a  captain  whom  he  knew.  It 
was  an  effectual  cure.     He  left  home  when  the  little 


24  Family  Influences, 

girls  were  very  young,  and  while  on  a  business  trip, 
died  suddenly  of  yellow-fever,  at  Bayou  St.  Louis, 
September  15,  1820.  There  was  always  a  romance  in 
mother's  mind  connected  with  the  bits  of  pretty 
glass  and  china  Charles  had  brought  home  from  that 
one  voyage.  They  seemed  inwrought  with  her  first 
dim,  childish  impressions  of  foreign  lands,  with  the 
strangeness  of  his  sudden  death  and  burial  in  the  far- 
away South. 

Among  other  notable  ways  brought  by  Eliza's 
mother  from  the  good  town  of  Boston,  was  that  of 
having  all  little  girls  taught  how  to  make  an  entire 
shirt  before  they  were  seven  years  old.  This  the 
oldest  daughter  duly  proceeded  to  accomplish,  setting 
so  many  careful,  faithful  stitches  in  the  linen,  and  feel- 
ing well  rewarded  for  all  her  toil  by  her  father's  kiss, 
w^hen  it  was  presented  to  him.  Just  as  conscien- 
tiously she  learned  all  varieties  of  embroidery  on 
linen  and  canvas  and  lace,  all  sorts  of  hemstitching 
and  cross-stitching,  cushions  and  needle-books,  which 
were  a  marvel  of  exquisite  finish  and  exact  construc- 
tion ;  meanwhile  she  was  being  initiated  more  and 
more  deeply  into  the  art  of  elaborate  cookery,  the 
adaptations  of  sauces  and  gravies,  the  exact  propor- 
tions of  brandy  and  wine  in  plum-puddings  and 
.mince-pies,  the  construction  of  perfect  salads  and 
soups,    and    feathery    tarts    and   jellies    of    which    it 


Family  Influences,  25 

does  not  behoove  a  dyspeptic  generation  even  to 
dream. 

Those  were  the  days  when  the  decrees  of  God 
were  held  responsible  for  gastric  fevers,  and  the 
demijohn  of  "  elixir  pro."  was  the  end  of  all  strife. 

The  physician's  word  was  as  positive  law  in  the 
physical  realm  as  the  minister's  in  the  spiritual,  and 
what  physician  in  New  England  in  our  grandmother's 
days  ever  suggested  prevention  rather  than  cure? 
So  the  generous  table  was  spread  day  after  day, 
with  every  thing  that  skill  could  devise;  and  the 
fame  of  Thanksgiving  and  Christmas  dinners  spread 
far  and  wide  among  the  cousins  and  connections,  to 
whom  the  hearty  hospitality  of  the  house  made  even 
the  memory  of  the  Pleasant  Street  home  bright. 
The  best  varieties  of  apples  and  pears,  cider  from  the 
farmer  on  the  Pelham  hills,  who  knew  how  to  make 
it  exactly  right,  wine  on  the  sideboard  for  callers,  — 
all  had  a  certain  importance  as  essential  to  physical 
comfort.  A  Grahamite  in  cooking  would  have  been 
looked  upon  in  their  circle  with  as  ill-concealed  dis- 
gust as  a  tor}'  in  politics  or  a  liberal  in  theology. 

Stanch  whigs  on  both  sides,  strict  Calvinists  on 
the  mother's,  girls  and  boys  talked  politics  in  the 
week-time  with  as  much  zeal  as  if  the  daughters  ex- 
pected to  vote  with  the  sons ;  and  on  Sundays  settled 
down  to   the  catechism  and   Parson  Williams's  long 


26  Family  Influences. 


sermons,  filling  the  square  pew  and  getting  a  certain 
discipline  of  endurance,  till  he  came  to  the  point 
they  were  watching  for,  —  "Let  us  now  pass  to  the 
application." 

Not  even  when  the  damask  roses  were  in  bloom, 
and  orioles  singing  in  the  elm-trees,  was  a  walk  down 
the  garden  allowed  on  that  one  long  day  of  the  week ; 
yet  in  such  a  merry,  affectionate  household  there 
were  a  thousand  reliefs,  and  Avhatever  else  was  missed 
they  were  sure  to  feel,  at  least  on  Sunday,  that  re- 
ligion, as  she  understood  it,  was  in  the  mother's  mind 
the  one  essential  thing. 

Eliza  grew  up  very  pretty.  Her  complexion  was  a 
marvellous  pink  and  white,  her  figure  slender  and 
round,  clear  gray  eyes,  and  curling  dark  hair.  "  We 
used  to  think,"  says  a  sister,  **  that  Eliza  would  be  a 
perfect  beauty,  except  for  her  mouth,  for  the  teeth 
were  a  little  irregular." 

She  was  so  absolutely  free  from  vanity  or  self- 
consciousness  as  often  to  neglect  the  common  girlish 
arts  for  making  one's  self  attractive.  She  hardly 
knew  or  cared  what  ribbon  became  her,  or  how  she 
looked  on  any  occasion.  But  suddenly  one  day  her 
mother  awoke  to  the  fact  of  her  beauty,  and  the  effect 
on  her  white  forehead  of  a  particularly  lovely  curl 
that  formed  itself  naturally  on  the  right  side.  Eliza 
was  solemnly  summoned,  and  the  curl  cut  off,  *'  for 


Family  Influejices.  27 

fear  it  would  make  her  vain  !  "  —  a  touch  of  asceticism 
whose  absurdity  nothing  could  hinder  her  strong 
common-sense  from  condemning  then  and  always. 
The  lock  never  grew  long,  but  lay  always  in  little 
crinkles  and  waves  very  unconquerable,  very  trouble- 
some in  the  wind,  and  very  dear  to  those  who  loved 
her  face.  In  her  matronhood,  she  said,  with  that 
simplicity  which  never  forsook  her,  ''  It  had  never 
entered  m)'  mind  that  I  was  pretty,  but  the  short 
lock  has  given  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  I  never 
saw  the  necessity  for  cutting  it  off." 

Nearly  every  spring,  though  she  was  not  thought 
delicate,  she  drooped  and  sank  into  slow  fever,  and 
remembered  always  her  feeling  of  lassitude  and  the 
weariness  of  gradual  creeping  back  to  her  old  condi- 
tion. But  even  then  that  spirit  of  *'  making  the  best 
of  things  "  was  strong  within  her,  and  she  yielded  to 
inaction  only  so  long  as  she  must.  As  soon  as  possi- 
ble she  was  again  at  her  work-basket,  always  so  care- 
fully supplied  with  thread  and  needles  and  all  other 
appliances,  the  resort  of  younger  sisters  in  all  cases 
of  need,  to  the  great  trial  of  her  patience ;  or  she  was 
running  in  the  garden  with  Hector,  the  big  dog  whom 
they  all  loved  so  much,  or  looking  after  the  flowers 
which  her  mother  took  vast  pains  to  have  blooming 
all  through  the  season.  When  Lafayette  made  his 
tour  of  New  England,  in   1825,  she  was  one  of  the 


28  Family  Influences. 


company  of  young  girls  who  went  out,  dressed  in 
white,  to  scatter  flowers  in  his  way.  Her  love  of 
flowers  and  all  external  nature  was  evident  very 
early.  Mt.  Holyoke  and  Mt.  Tom  were  personal 
friends.  That  beautiful  valley  is  dear  to  every  one 
who  grows  up  in  it,  and  nowhere  lovelier  than  at  that 
river-bend  which  holds  Northampton.  Song  and 
story  have  since  celebrated  the  charm  of  the  old 
town  and  the  exquisite  landscape,  the  view  of  the 
meadows  from  the  mountain,  and  the  view  of  the 
mountains  from  Round  Hill,  the  great  old  tree 
where  Jonathan  Edwards  sat  to  write  his  sermons, 
the  glory  of  the  elms  in  summer  and  the  maples  in 
autumn,  and  the  attraction  of  its  refined  society.  It 
all  grew  into  the  very  soul  of  the  children  who  played 
under  those  trees,  hunted  wild-flowers  in  the  meadows, 
and  picked  arbutus  every  spring  on  the  hills,  had  May 
parties  and  crowned  May  queens,  in  the  days  when 
the  war  of  1812  was  the  last  event,  before  letters 
were  put  in  envelopes,  when  Monroe  was  president, 
steamships  and  railways  and  the  telegraph  unknown, 
and  the  semi-weekly  Boston  stage-coach  the  closest 
connection  Northampton  had  with  the  great  outside 
world. 


CHAPTER   II. 
YOUTH   AND   MARRIAGE. 


II. 

YOUTH   AND    MARRIAGE. 

*'  So  from  t/u  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends^ 


And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender  rill. 

Holmes. 


Each  widening  torrent  bends^ 


**  These  are  they  that  folloio  the  Lamb  "whither- 
soever he  goeth^ 

St.  John. 

"PORTUNATELY  for  my  mother  and  those  who 
were  to  come  after,  the  graded-school  system 
did  not  exist  in  her  childhood. 

There  was  no  iron  six-hours  regime,  with  examina- 
tions for  promotion  and  the  fever  of  hurry  and  com- 
petition, to  burn  out  the  Hfe  of  young  girls,  while 
individuality  is  buried  under  routine.  Unfortunately 
nothing  better  was  in  its  place. 

The  daughter  who  had  been  trained  in  needle-work 
and  domestic  management,  taught  the  spelling  and 
grammar  of  her  native  tongue,  geography,  history, 
and  arithmetic,  might  or  might  not  push  on  toward  sci- 
ence and  the  knowledge  of  other  languages.    If  she  had 


32  Youth  and  Marriage. 

a  strong  intellectual  bent  and  was  favorably  situated, 
she  could  sometimes  snatch  what  hung  a  little  too 
high  for  her.  Ordinarily,  with  the  prevailing  opinion 
that  the  ideal  woman  might  be  ignorant,  though  she 
must  be  good,  and  owed  a  limitless  duty  to  every  thing 
and  every  person  about  her,  excepting  to  her  own  intel- 
lect, girls  accepted  the  situation,  smothered  their  won- 
der why  there  were  not  colleges  for  them  as  well  as  for 
boys,  and  stitched  into  the  wristbands  and  collars  of 
the  brothers  who  were  starting  for  Yale  or  Harvard, 
their  silent  puzzle  and  longing.  Smith  College  is 
one  of  the  first  objects  of  interest  to  the  stranger  who 
visits  Northampton  now;  but  it  was  fifty  years  too 
late  for  the  young  girl  who  in  1825  had  finished  re- 
citing history,  drawing  maps,  copying  extracts  from 
Percival,  and  running  through  the  paradigms  of  the 
first  Latin  Lessons. 

There  was  no  one  to  observe  in  her  well-formed 
head,  her  uncommon  perseverance  in  noticing  and  in- 
vestigating natural  processes  and  classifying  natural 
objects,  in  her  indifference  to  trifles  and  enthusiasm 
for  worthy  ends,  her  soundness  of  judgment  and 
strength  of  purpose,  indications  of  a  mind  that  would 
repay  special  training. 

It  was  left  for  those  who  saw  her  collecting  mosses 
and  shells  when  she  was  past  sixty,  valuing  them  not 
wholly  for  their  beauty,  but  delighting  in  the  ugliest 


Youth  and  Marriage.  33 

brown  bit  if  it  were  a  specimen  of  a  class,  to  detect  in 
her  the  genuine  scientific  spirit,  and  to  say  as  many  did, 
"  What  might  she  not  have  done  in  a  special  depart- 
ment if  she  had  been  educated  for  it !  " 

"  I  was  generally  considered  a  good  scholar,"  she 
wrote  once  to  a  friend,  "  and  was  so,  according  to  the 
system  of  instruction  at  that  time.  I  learned  easily 
and  loved  to  learn,  but  was  not  required  to  under- 
stand. There  was  no  one  to  superintend  my  studies, 
and  though  I  wanted  to  go  beyond  the  common 
English  branches,  my  father  thought  it  unnecessary. 
When  I  left  school  I  was  supposed  to  have  a  very 
good  education."  Years  afterward,  when  she  was 
twenty- two,  she  began  a  course  of  study  with  Miss 
Margaret  Dwight,  taking  Euclid,  mental  philosophy, 
and  some  other  branches,  writing  careful  abstracts. 
It  was  valuable  to  her,  though  interrupted  before  it  was 
completed.  She  painted  a  little  and  well,  flowers 
and  fruit,  —  sweet-brier,  white  lilies,  and  a  little  red 
apple  on  a  blue  plate,  still  remaining  as  specimens  of 
her  skill. 

In  her  correspondence  with  her  cousin,  Anne 
Payson,  there  is  allusion  to  the  books  in  which  they 
both  were  interested,  Anne  asking  her  if  she  has 
read  **  Saratoga,"  and  whether  the  hero  does  not 
remind  her  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison. 

Dancing  and  dancing-parties   the   small  Eliza  en- 

3 


34  Youth  and  Marriage. 

joyed  heartily.  In  a  letter  written  by  her  brother 
John,  just  after  returning  to  Yale  from  vacation,  he 
asks  her  ''  how  the  agricultural  ball  passed  off,"  and 
says  *'  he  is  glad  she  did  not  go,"  as  he  does  not 
quite  approve  of  so  much  gayety  for  so  very  young 
girls,  *'  grandchildren  dancing  with  their  venerable 
ancestors." 

She  was  then  thirteen.  It  could  not  have  been 
long  after,  that  she  made  the  visit  to  her  Aunt  Welles 
in  Hartford.  Mrs.  Welles  was  a  sister  of  her  father, 
living  on  what  was  so  long  known  as  the  W^elles 
place,  on  Washington  Street,  and  was  quite  blind. 
That  visit  she  always  recalled  with  great  interest. 
My  mother  liked  to  describe  the  marvellous  patience 
of  her  aunt,  her  moving  about  the  house  without 
help,  her  way  of  saying,  if  a  thing  was  lost,  *'  I  will 
find  it;  "  her  going  to  closets  and  bureau  drawers 
and  producing  articles  which  others  who  could  see 
had  vainly  searched  for;  and  the  instinct  which 
guided  her,  on  entering  a  room,  directly  to  the  guest 
she  wished  to  welcome,  without  hesitation  or  awk- 
wardness. 

The  little  niece  sprang  one  evening  to  get  a  lamp 
for  her  aunt  who  was  going  upstairs,  and  never  forgot 
the  tone  in  which  she  answered,  "  My  dear,  the  dark- 
ness and  the  light  are  alike  to  me." 

Mrs.  Welles  regretted,  in  her  hearing  one  day,  that 


Youth  and  Marriage.  35 

no  one  in  the  different  families  had  her  name.  So 
easy  a  way  of  giving  happiness  did  not  escape  the 
notice  of  the  child.  She  insisted  that  she  would  take 
it,  and  did  so,  ever  after  signing  her  name  with  the  W. 
The  Elizabeth  of  her  christening  had  some  time  before 
passed  into  Eliza,  to  avoid  confusion  with  a  cousin, 
Elizabeth  Butler,  living  on  the  same  street. 

After  John  had  gone  to  college,  the  next  event 
that  stirred  the  current  of  the  family  life  was  Eliza's 
winter  in  Boston.  She  was  invited  by  Mrs.  Rollins, 
a  cousin,  and  set  out  with  much  of  the  same  excited 
anticipation  with  which  a  young  Boston  girl  would 
start  for  Paris  now.  The  blue  silk  pelisse  in  which 
she  was  arrayed  is  in  existence  still,  with  its  belt 
too  short  for  any  but  the  very  slenderest  waists  that 
have  tried  it,  in  tableaux,  since,  and  wide  balloon-like 
sleeves, —  ''  mutton-legs,"  as  they  were  called. 

The  faithful  little  thimble  was  packed  away,  there 
was  the  last  hug  of  Hector  the  dog,  tears  and  kisses 
all  round  the  little  group  of  which  she  was  just  then 
the  centre ;  and  the  gray-eyed  girl,  with  pinker  roses 
in  her  cheeks  than  ever,  set  out  in  the  stage-coach 
for  the  long  journey,  and  her  first  glimpse  of  the 
great  world.  That  winter  was  an  episode  ever  kept 
quite  by  itself  in  her  memory.  To  trace  just  the 
effect  of  all  the  new  experience,  and  to  picture  the 
artless,  strong,  direct  nature  in  its  first  contact  with 


36  Youth  and  Marriage, 

society  as  she  was  introduced  to  it  on  Beacon  Street, 
would  need  a  master's  skill.  One  can  see  it  better 
than  say  it.  The  theatre  disappointed  her ;  she  was 
taken  to  witness  different  plays,  but  she  said  it  all 
seemed  unreal.  Reason  overbalanced  imagination 
in  her  mind,  and  the  "make  believe"  did  not  seem 
to  her  worth  while.  Parties  and  balls  had  a  zest. 
The  white  satin  bodice  and  scant  India  muslin,  with 
which  she  wore  pomegranates  and  cherry  ribbons, 
were  found  years  after,  in  the  days  when  she  had 
come  to  look  back  on  all  that  as  a  sin,  and  made  the 
occasion  of  half-reluctant  descriptions  of  other  lovely 
costumes  in  which  she  danced  away  the  night.  It 
was  her  delight,  though  she  was  strangely  uncon- 
scious of  the  charming  picture  she  must  have  made, 
with  her  fair  face  and  waving  hair,  the  exquisitely 
turned  arms,  tapering  to  the  slender  wrist,  and  the 
perfectly  moulded  hand,  covered,  but  not  concealed, 
by  the  long  kid  gloves  it  was  the  fashion  to  wear, 
nearly  to  the  elbow.  The  only  point  of  personal 
beauty  in  which  she  ever  confessed  any  satisfaction, 
was  a  certain  turn  of  foot  and  ankle,  tapering  and 
with  very  high  instep,  which  pleased  her  because  it 
was  like  her  father's. 

Her  letters  describing  what  she  saw,  and  her  new 
sensations  that  season,  her  seventeenth  winter,  are 
not  to  be  found ;   but  those   from  home  were  care- 


YoiUh  and  Marriage,  37 

fully  folded  away  in  her  desk.  They  give  glimpses 
of  a  cheery,  affectionate  family  life  :  the  sister  tells  of 
all  the  calls  and  visits ;  Daniel  describes  how  early 
Nancy,  the  maid,  woke  him  the  ist  of  January,  by 
her  '*  Happy  New  Year!"  at  his  door;  and  John 
caresses  and  teases  all  in  one  breath.  That  she  was 
dearly  loved  and  sorely  missed  is  very  plain.  There 
are  sly  allusions  to  her  as  "  a  young  lady  of  fashion," 
and  hints  of  increasing  sensitiveness  to  matters  of 
dress,  in  Maria's  remark,  **  If  you  do  not  like  the 
shape  of  the  cap  mother  made  you,  send  it  back;  " 
and  was  it  then  or  earlier  she  experienced  misery  in 
having  square-toed  shoes  bought  for  her  when  round 
toes  were  in  fashion? 

One  cannot  repress  a  heartache,  though  her  own 
pangs  were  so  long  ago  over,  at  the  sudden  breaking- 
off  of  that  joyful,  free  winter.  All  was  still  at  high 
tide,  the  dance  with  the  officers  at  the  Navy  Yard  ball, 
concerts  here  and  calls  there,  and  long-anticipated 
visits  to  cousins  in  Charlestown  and  elsewhere  still  in 
prospect,  when  Sister  Anne's  letters  begin  to  grow 
mysterious.  Hitherto  they  had  been  full  of  elaborate 
advice  on  behavior  and  obligations,  —  "Do  not  let 
the  reputation  of  Northampton  ladies,  for  good  man- 
ners, suffer  at  your  hands."  ''  Appear  properly  on 
all  occasions,  and  keep  us  advised  of  your  move- 
ments."    But   now,   after  various  inexplicable    hints 


38  Youth  and  Marriage, 

from  Anne  and  mystifications  on  the  part  of  the  big 
brothers,  it  comes  out  that  Anne  has  promised  to 
marry  Mr,  B.,  a  gentleman  from  the  South,  with  five 
children,  and  directly  it  is  suggested  that  Eliza  has 
been  gone  from  home  some  time.  She  clings  to  the 
carrying  out  of  her  bright  plans ;  but  the  suggestions 
become  more  definite,  and  at  last  comes  the  letter 
which  says,  **  We  must  have  your  assistance  in  prep- 
arations for  the  approaching  wedding.  You  know 
you  are  a  dabster  at  work,  and  we  want  your  help." 
The  postscript  signed  ''  Your  aff.  father,  D.  Butler," 
announced  "  that  her  passage  is  engaged  in  Thurs- 
day's stage,  and  they  shall  expect  her."  So  the 
trunk  was  packed,  rather  soberly,  w^e  must  think. 
No  more  flutter  under  the  little  satin  bodice;  but 
before  the  journey  is  over,  loving  thoughts  of  home 
have  partly  covered  the  disappointment,  and  the 
thimble  comes  out  again,  the  gay  pictures  begin 
to  retire  to  the  background,  after  all  the  stories  have 
been  told  and  the  pretty  things  exhibited,  and  while 
she  thinks  she  is  only  helping,  as  a  sister  should, 
to  make  Anne's  wedding-dresses,  the  currents  have 
changed,  bearing  her  quite  away  from  one  shore  and 
towards  the  opposite.  While  they  sat  sewing,  the 
fates  were  weaving  one  more  strong  thread  into  the 
character  of  the  young  girl,  and  drawing  her  closer  to 
the  company  of  the  elect,  who  are  "  not  to  be  min- 
istered unto,  but  to  minister." 


Yotith  and  Marriage,  39 

There  is  a  strange  sensation  in  taking  up  the 
package  of  faded  letters,  tied  with  white  ribbon,  the 
first  of  which  has  the  news  of  Anne's  engagement. 
In  the  next  there  is  the  stir  of  preparation,  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  house  that  is  to  be  built,  —  and  there  it 
stands  still,  white  and  stately  on  Round  Hill ;  then 
after  the  wedding,  the  journals  of  the  trip  undertaken 
within  the  year  for  Anne's  failing  health ;  the  account 
of  her  cough,  which  is  "a  little  better,"  —  those  coughs 
that  are  always  '*  a  little  better."  More  serious  letters 
follow,  in  which  Anne  pours  out  the  soul  experiences 
of  the  past  years,  which  in  health  she  had  found  it 
impossible  to  utter  to  them.  She  tells  them  through 
what  doubts  and  conflicts  she  came  to  faith  and  joy- 
ful trust  in  Christ ;  then  no  more  from  Anne,  but  the 
rest  in  her  husband's  handwriting,  saying,  "  She  fails 
but  is  wonderfully  supported,  that  her  peace  is  some- 
thing marvellous,  that  death  has  no  terror,  and  heaven 
a  home  of  rapture  to  her  thought,"  and  soon  that  all 
is  over  and  "  our  precious  Anne  is  no  more."  In  the 
next  enclosure  are  the  green  leaves  from  her  grave  in 
Petersburg,  Va. 

During  that  year  Eliza  had  much  care  of  the  little 
children  who  were  left  behind  in  the  home  on  the 
Hill,  while  the  invalid  mother  was  travelling.  She 
was  at  the  house  every  day,  and  dearly  loved  Lucy, 
the   youngest    little    girl,  with    her    sweet  ways    and 


40  Youth  and  Marriage, 

pretty  *'  Din  Aunt  Izy,"  when  she  was  tossed  up  and 
caught.  The  child  fell  suddenly  ill,  and  died  before 
the  father's  return.  It  was  a  sharp  pain  to  the  tender 
heart  that  loved  so  deeply  and  so  long  when  it  loved 
at  all.  To  the  last  of  her  life  her  eyes  grew  dim 
whenever  she  spoke  of  the  child. 

**  I  never  could  understand,"  says  a  cousin,  who 
was  very  intimate  in  their  home,  "  why  Eliza  should 
say,  as  she  sometimes  did  to  me,  that  her  tempera- 
ment was  not  cheerful,  that  she  inclined  to  sombre 
thoughts,  and  had  a  good  deal  of  sadness  that  she 
could  not  shake  off.  It  must  be  simply  another  ex- 
ample of  those  who  do  not  understand  themselves, 
for  a  merrier,  sunnier  creature  never  lived.  She 
was  all  heartiness,  the  embodiment  of  hope  and 
kindness." 

But  she  knew  the  deep  unrest  that  no  one  under- 
stood and  nothing  quieted ;  and  the  good  angels 
knew,  as  they  watched  her  bending  over  her  em- 
broidery or  waking  weary  after  the  night's  ball,  that 
the  forces  that  moulded  her  were  culminating.  A 
better  Friend  than  she  knew  was  nearer  than  she 
thought. 

October  20,  1826,  her  sister  Anne  writes  to  her, 
*'  Oh,  my  dear  sister,  the  steppings  of  Jehovah  have 
indeed  been  stately  among  us,  and  his  name  be  for 
ever  praised  that  he  has  graciously  condescended  to 


Youth  and  Marriage,  41 

visit  us  with  the  blessings  of  his  grace.  The  lan- 
guage of  your  letter  did  appear  strange,  as  coming 
from  the  gay  and  thoughtless  sister  that  I  parted 
from  a  few  weeks  before.  I  had  sensibly  realized 
the  dreadful  brink  on  which  you  stood,  and  had 
prayed  earnestly  that  you  might  be  arrested  in  your 
course  ere  it  was  too  late.  Let  me  tell  you,  my  dear 
Eliza;  I  was  grieved  to  see  you  so  obstinately  deter- 
mined not  to  interest  yourself  in  the  solemn  concerns 
of  eternity.  Your  conduct  was  very  frivolous,  and  I 
looked  upon  you  as  standing  upon  dangerous  ground. 
I  am  sure  mother  was  in  bitterness  for  you.  She 
told  me  how  Martha  B.,  Elizabeth  S.,  your  favorite 
companion,  and  yourself  were  opposing  the  work  of 
the  Lord.  You  will  now  regret  that  you  did  not  en- 
courage, instead  of  using  every  effort  to  dissipate  the 
seriousness  of  little  N.  and  M.  in  th^  early  part  of 
the  summer.  Be  careful  now  in  every  thing  to  set 
them  a  good  example.  Be  careful  to  guard  your 
temper,  to  watch  over  your  thoughts,  and  pray 
that  you  may  be  kept  from  the  allurements  of  the 
world.  You  are  very  young,  and  dangers  will  beset 
you  on  every  side,  but  put  your  trust  in  your  Maker 
and  persevere.  Realize  that  you  are  continually  in 
his  presence.  Seek  at  all  times  light  and  protection 
from  him,  and  he  will  be  ready  to  hear  you." 

In  September,  1828,  Dr.  Ichabod  Spencer  became 


42  Youth  and  Marriage, 

pastor  of  the  church  in  Northampton,  and  had  a 
peculiarly  strong  influence  in  forming  my  mother's 
rehgious  opinions  and  stimulating  her  spiritual  life.  In 
her  diary,  under  date  of  October  4,  1829,  is  this  entry: 
"  I  have  completed  the  circuit  of  my  twentieth  year. 
It  becomes  me  at  this  time  to  review  my  life,  to  as- 
certain if  I  have  lived  like  an  heir  of  immortality.  I 
do  most  earnestly  desire  to  come  out  from  the  w^orld 
and  join  myself  to  the  church  of  Christ,  to  become  a 
devoted  Christian,  and  never  to  be  a  reproach  or  dis- 
grace to  the  religion  of  Christ." 

^'February  21,  1830.  —  I  have  not  till  now  had  an 
opportunity  of  recording  the  fulfilment  of  the  promise 
I  made  on  my  birthday.  I  then  promised  soon  to 
profess  my  faith  in  Christ  and  give  myself  up  en- 
tirely to  his  service.  On  the  first  Sabbath  of  this 
month  I  came  forward  and  joined  myself  to  the 
people  of  God.  I  trust  I  was  enabled  to  give  up 
every  feeling  and  affection  of  my  heart  to  be  gov- 
erned by  his  will.  He  answered  my  prayer,  even 
beyond  my  expectation,  in  delivering  me  from  the 
fear  of  man,  and  in  strengthening  me  for  the  per- 
formance of  this  duty.  He  granted  me  the  light  of 
his  countenance  and  the  joys  of  his  salvation.  I 
came  in  simple  reliance  on  my  Saviour,  and  experi- 
enced no  rapturous  joy,  but  a  calm,  unclouded  hope 
that  I  w^as  accepted  with  God,  and  the  fulfilment  of 


Youth  and  Marriage.  43 

—  ■  — — —  ■■-  ~  — 

that  promise,  *  Peace  I  leave  with  you,  my  peace  I 
give  unto  you.'  O  my  Saviour,  I  have  given  my- 
self up  entirely  to  thy  service.  Grant  unto  me 
patience  to  wait  all  my  appointed  time  till  my 
change  come,  and  while  I  remain  on  earth  let  me 
be  doing  something  for  thy  glory.  I  would  not  live 
a  useless  life.  Thou  knowest  my  weakness,  but  thou 
canst  be  touched  with  the  feeling  of  my  infirmities ; 
thou  hast  been  tempted  even  as  I  am,  and  I  delight 
to  cast  myself  on  Thee." 

^^  May  2,  1830.  —  I  cannot  better  spend  the  after- 
noon of  this  holy  day  than  in  reviewing  my  Christian 
experience.  How  difficult  the  task !  Guide  me,  O 
thou  Spirit  of  grace,  that  I  err  not  and  record  noth- 
ing inconsistent  with  truth.  From  my  earliest  youth 
I  was  subject  to  serious  impressions;  when  a  child, 
I  frequently  resolved  to  be  a  Christian ;  my  soul 
would  tremble  at  the  wrath  of  God,  and  melt  into 
contrition  under  a  sense  of  his  mercy;  then  I  would 
endeavor  to  pacify  my  conscience  by  a  formula  of 
duties,  and  when  the  heartless  manner  in  which  they 
were  performed  failed  to  satisfy,  I  would  dismiss  the 
heavenly  messenger  with,  '  Go  thy  way  for  this  time ; 
when  I  have  a  convenient  season  I  will  call  for  thee ;  ' 
but  these  seasons  seldom  returned  after  the  age  of 
thirteen,  though  the  remembrance  of  them  would 
sometimes  imbitter  my   gayest  hours,  and  spread   a 


44  Youth  and  Mar^nage. 

gloom  over  my  spirits,  even  in  the  enjoyment  of 
what  my  wicked  heart  most  coveted,  and  when  revel- 
Hng  amidst  the  luxuriance  and  beauty  of  nature,  the 
monitory  voice  has  come  like  a  blight  over  my  spirit, 
and  my  accusing  conscience  would  whisper,  '  Shall 
all  nature  utter  the  praises  of  its  Creator,  and  shall 
man,  the  only  creature  of  his  hand  capable  of  rendering 
him  rational  worship,  —  shall  he  withhold  the  tribute 
of  his  praise?'  Thoughts  like  these  would  some- 
times disturb  my  peace,  but  they  were  quickly  for- 
gotten, and  my  soul  plunged  into  the  pleasures  of  sin. 
In  the  spring  of  1826,  I  returned  home  from  Boston, 
with  a  heart  more  than  ever  devoted  to  the  w^orld  and 
more  fully  determined  not  to  yield  to  the  claims  of 
the  gospel.  Indeed,  I  was  hardened  in  indifference 
and  '  cared  for  none  of  these  things.'  But  God  had 
begun  to  pour  out  his  Spirit  upon  the  town,  and  my 
attention  was  again  drawn  to  the  subject;  but  as  my 
conscience  became  alarmed,  so  also  did  my  sin,  and 
I  determined  that  I  would  not  become  a  Christian 
then.  I  was  resolved  to  become  a  Christian  before 
I  died,  but  it  should  be  in  my  own  time  and  my  own 
way,  and  my  pride  especially  revolted  at  becoming 
pious  in  a  revival.  With  these  determinations,  I 
went  on.  I  was  watched.  I  avoided  the  society  of 
Christians,  and  tried  to  escape  from  my  conscience. 
I  remained  in  this  state  till  the  first  of  September, 


Youth  and  Marriage,  45 

when  one  day  Mr.  S.  called  and  conversed  with  me  a 
long  time  on  the  subject.  I  was  quite  angry  at  the 
time,  for  I  had  formed  my  resolution  and  did  not 
wish  to  be  disturbed.  Of  course  what  he  said  failed 
to  impress  me,  but  after  having  obtained  my  permis- 
sion to  pray  with  me,  he  rose  to  leave,  when,  taking 
my  hand,  he  said  solemnly,  but  affectionately,  '  I  have 
done  for  you  all  that  I  can  do,  and  by  your  own  con- 
sent you  have  been  committed  into  the  hands  of 
God,  and  remember  you  are  dealing  with  him.' 
This  thought  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  my  soul. 
I  had  been  flattering  myself  that  I  was  not  opposed 
to  God,  but  only  to  the  extravagance  of  Christians; 
but  now  I  felt  that  I  was  in  the  hands  of  God,  and  I 
was  alarmed.  I  felt  that  I  was  deciding  for  eternity. 
I  deliberately  counted  the  cost  of  being  a  Christian. 
All  those  obstacles  which  appeared  so  mountainous 
before,  now  vanished  into  air ;  but  there  was  nothing 
I  feared  more  than  the  ridicule  of  those  associates 
with  whom  I  had  joined  in  pouring  contempt  upon 
others.  This  vanished  before  the  light  of  the  Judg- 
ment. I  felt  that  there  they  could  do  me  no  good,  they 
could  not  even  save  themselves.  I  determined  not 
to  hesitate  any  longer,  but  immediately  gave  m}'self 
up  to  God ;  then  my  fears  were  quieted,  and  my 
mind,  which  had  recently  been  full  of  anguish,  was 
now  calm  and  peaceful. 


46    "  Youth  and  Marriage. 

"  I  was  so  ignorant  of  spiritual  things  it  was  a  long 
time  before  I  could  believe  that  one  so  vile  as  I  had 
been,  could  be  a  Christian.  I  could  not  think  I  was 
the  enemy  of  God,  but  I  was  afraid  to  call  myself  his 
friend.  I  dared  not  apply  his  promises  to  myself, 
yet  when  the  thought  of  death  came  over  me,  I  would 
cling  to  the  feet  of  my  Saviour,  resolved  if  I  perished 
to  perish  there.  A  death-like  apathy  settled  upon 
my  soul,  yet  in  all  my  darkness  I  never  dared  to 
murmur  against  God.  I  knew  the  difficulty  was  all  in 
myself.  Often  have  I  risen  from  my  secret  devotions 
feeling  that  my  prayers  were  so  cold  and  heartless 
that  they  were  little  better  than  blasphemy.  The 
tempter  would  suggest  it  was  more  sinful  for  me  to 
pray  than  to  neglect  the  duty,  but  conscience  told 
me  that  I  stood  more  in  need  of  prayer  then  than 
ever,  and,  thanks  be  to  God,  I  was  never  induced  to 
relinquish  it,  or  any  other  form  of  religion,  so  that  I 
hope  I  have  not  brought  any  positive  disgrace  upon 
religion.  Through  it  all  I  continually  offered  one  sin- 
cere prayer  to  God  that  I  might  not  be  deceived. 

"  In  the  spring  of  1828,  God  called  me  to  mourn  the 
loss  of  a  very  dear  sister,  and  I  trust  this  dispensation 
of  his  providence  was  not  lost  upon  me.  It  taught 
me  to  examine  my  own  heart,  to  scrutinize  carefully 
my  feelings  and  motives  during  her  sickness.  I  could 
not  feel  willing  that  she  should  live  or  die  just  as  God 


Youth  and  Marriage.  47 

saw  best;  no,  I  could  not  give  her  up;  she  must  re- 
cov^er  and  return  to  us  once  more.  I  recognized  his 
hand  in  her  death,  but  I  fear  the  httle  resignation  I 
had,  proceeded  more  from  a  conviction  of  the  power 
of  God  than  from  any  true  love  or  submission  to 
him.  I  trust  the  result  of  this  dispensation  was  a 
deeper  msight  into  the  iniquity  of  my  heart,  and  the 
determination  to  become  more  decidedly  a  Christian. 
Through  the  summer  I  was  constantly  striving  to 
recommend  myself  to  the  favor  of  God  by  endeavor- 
ing to  overcome  in  my  own  strength  the  depravity 
of  my  heart  and  to  make  myself  more  worthy  of  his 
love.  The  result  of  this  course  was  a  complete  failure. 
I  was  wretchedly  unhappy,  I  could  find  no  happiness 
in  myself  and  none  in  my  God ;  and  the  world  — 
I  loathed  it:  its  pleasures  were  never  so  insipid,  its 
allurements  were  never  so  feeble ;  and,  unhappy  as  I 
was,  I  preferred  remaining  in  that  state  to  returning 
to  its  bondage. 

"  In  the  autumn  Mr.  Spencer  was  settled  as  our 
pastor,  and  I  owe  it  to  his  faithful,  heart-searching 
preaching,  under  the  blessing  of  God,  that  I  was  ever 
brought  to  hope  that  I  was  a  Christian.  One  sermon 
in  particular  was  much  blessed  to  me ;  it  was  on 
faith.  He  first  explained  true  faith  and  then  painted 
its  counterfeit.  He  said  that  one  characteristic  of 
false  faith  was  relying  on  the  ACT  of  faith  for  salva- 


48  Youth  and  Marriage. 

tion  instead  of  the  merits  of  Christ  alone.  This  was 
precisely  my  situation.  I  had,  as  I  thought,  given 
myself  up  to  God,  and  I  felt  I  had  a  right  to  be  saved. 
I  had  often  wondered,  and  had  sometimes  felt  inclined 
to  murmur,  that  I  could  not  be  happy,  but  never,  till 
I  heard  this  sermon,  did  I  incline  to  suspect  that  this 
might  be  my  difficulty.  When  I  did  discover  it,  I 
trust  I  was  enabled  to  renounce  all  dependence  upon 
any  thing  but  the  blood  of  Jesus,  and  never,  till  then, 
did  I  know  what  it  was  to  rejoice  in  hope. 

*'  It  was  now  my  ardent  desire  and  firm  purpose  to 
be  a  spiritual  and  devoted  Christian.  I  did  not  wish 
to  be  known  as  a  Christian  only  when  I  was  at  the 
communion-table,  but  I  wished  to  make  it  manifest 
by  my  life  and  conversation  that  I  had  been  with 
Jesus. 

''  I  determined  to  give  up  every  worldly  pleasure, 
every  sinful  amusement,  and  as  far  as  possible  to 
absent  myself  from  every  fashionable  party,  and  not 
-to  have  it  said  of  me,  'What  does  she  more  than 
others?'  but  I  did  not  wish  to  have  my  religion  con- 
sist in  this.  I  wished  to  live  a  life  of  faith  on  the 
Son  of  God,  to  be  daily  holding  communion  with 
him  and  seeking  by  the  influences  of  the  Holy  Spirit 
to  grow  in  grace.  I  wished  to  be  laboring  in  his  ser- 
vice, and  thus  to  be  laying  up  for  myself  treasure  in 
heaven,  and  to  be  constantly  prepared  and  looking 


Yotcth  and  Marriage.  49 

forward  to  that  day  when  I  could  go  home  and  dwell 
for  ever  with  my  Redeerper. 

''May  15.  —  Found  two  of  my  dear  class  in  the 
Sabbath  School  rejoicing  in  hope.  I  was  over- 
whelmed by  the  mercy  of  God,  but  now  experienced 
a  reverse  of  feeling.  I  found  that  I  was  more  anxious 
to  satisfy  the  church  that  I  was  engaged,  than  I  was 
to  be  strong  in  faith  and  have  my  heart  humble  and 
prayerful  before  God ;  and  then  my  old  besetting 
sin,  pride,  would  fain  persuade  me  that  I  was  very 
good  and  that  I  was  very  much  engaged.  Then  I 
found  that  I  was  becoming  cold  and  formal ;  but 
I  could  not  rest  in  this  state.  I  determined  to  arise 
and  go  to  my  Father,  and  the  thought  came  sweetly 
to  my  heart,  I  could  not  be  more  than  the  chief  of 
sinners,  and  that  was  the  very  person  Jesus  came  to 
save. 

**  February  6.  —  Dr.  Spencer  alluded  to  the  prospect 
of  his  separation  from  us.  I  wept  bitter  tears  of 
sorrow  at  the  thought  of  losing  so  good,  so  affection- 
ate, and  so  faithful  a  shepherd.  In  the  afternoon  the 
claims  of  Home  Missions  were  presented ;  I  felt  that 
I  longed  to  do  something  in  this  work,  and  that  I 
was  willing  to  go  where  the  Lord  should  send  me, 
and  do  any  thing,  if  I  could  be  instrumental  of  good 
to  the  perishing.  I  have  drawn  very  near  to  God  in 
prayer,  and  he  has  enabled  me  to  give  up  all  that  I 

4 


50  Youth  and  Marriage, 

have  and  am  to  him.  I  felt  that  Jie  was  my  portion, 
my  guide,  and  I  needed  nothing  more.  I  cheerfully 
gave  up  my  beloved  pastor  to  him  as  a  precious 
gift  that  he  had  loaned  me  for  a  little,  and  now  in  his 
mysterious  providence  recalled." 

There  is  carefully  kept  in  her  desk  a  little  note 
which  runs  as  follows,  "  The  Miss  Butlers  are  obliged 
to  decline  the  very  polite  invitation  of  the  man- 
agers of  the  cotillon  party  for  to-morrow  evening," 
F'cbruary  2,  1830,  and  which  was  evidently  preserved  as 
marking  a  decided  change  in  her  course  of  action. 

"  Every  thing  was  strict  and  straightforward  with 
her,"  says  her  sister  Maria.  *'  There  was  a  distinct 
line  drawn  between  the  church  and  the  world.  It 
must  have  been  in  1832,  while  she  was  visiting  in 
New  York,  and  had  been  anxiously  expecting  a  letter 
from  home,  when  a  letter  was  brought  to  her  on  Sun- 
day morning,  and,  knowing  that  it  would  be  full  of 
chit-chat  about  Mr,  B.'s  wedding,  she  locked  it  in  her 
trunk  and  would  not  open  it  until  Monday  morning." 
Her  brother  Daniel  says :  *'  She  was  faithful  in  her 
closet  duties  long  before  she  united  with  the  church. 
Prayer  and  the  study  of  God's  Word  were  her  life,  and 
made  her  what  she  was.  She  not  only  continued  in 
prayer,  but  became  mighty  in  prayer,  and  will  be 
classed  with  those  who  have  prevailed  with  God." 

I  quote  from  her  diary  under  date  of  January,  1833  : 


Youth  and  Marriage,  51 

**  In  the  presence  of  God,  with  the  solemn  reaHties  of 
eternity  in  view,  I  covenant  to  devote  myself  unre- 
servedly to  his  service,  to  deny  myself,  to  take  up 
the  cross  and  follow  Christ.  I  will  remember  that  I 
am  not  my  own,  and  will  be  ready  for  any  work  to 
which  God  shall  call  me.  I  beseech  thee,  dear 
Saviour,  if  it  be  thy  will,  to  let  me  carry  the  gospel 
to  the  destitute.  Prepare  me  for  it  by  the  discipline 
of  thy  Spirit,  that  in  humility  and  godly  sincerity  I 
may  follow  thee  whithersoever  thou  goest,  and  live  like 
a  pilgrim  and  stranger  on  the  earth." 

"  yiine  9,  1833.  —  For  the  last  month  my  mind  has 
been  much  agitated  with  the  question  whether  I 
should  remove  my  connection  from  the  old  church 
to  the  new  Edwards  Church.  I  have  prayed  earnestly 
for  Divine  direction,  desirous  of  following  only  the 
path  of  duty  independently  of  every  other  considera- 
tion, but  whether  I  really  possessed  this  feeling  of 
submission,  He  alone  who  searches  the  heart  can  tell. 
I  have  decided  to  take  the  step.  While  my  mind  has 
been  thus  engaged  I  find  my  heart  has  sadly  run  to 
waste.  At  one  time  I  was  influenced  by  a  spirit 
of  self-complacency,  at  another  by  pride,  worldly- 
mindedness,  and  fear  of  man,  and,  what  was  worse,  I 
found  myself  cherishing  a  spirit  of  party.  These  are 
but  a  few  of  the  wicked  feelings  I  found  rankling  in 
my  bosom.     My  prayers  were  not  fervent  and  spir- 


52  Youth  and  Marriage,  ^ 

itual.  I  indulged  in  wandering  thoughts  and  vain 
imaginations,  and  so  my  soul  was  paralyzed.  But 
God  has  not  left  my  soul  in  the  power  of  the  Lion. 
I  think  I  can  now  say  I  have  not  an  unkind  feeling 
toward  any  member  of  this  church.  Met  this  morn- 
ing an  hour  before  church  with  the  Sunday  School 
teachers,  to  pray  for  our  classes.  If  I  ever  feel  I  am 
nothing  Avithout  the  grace  of  God,  it  is  when  I  stand 
before  my  class. 

"  September  29.  —  Seated  at  my  favorite  window 
enjoying  the  calm  repose  of  this  holy  evening,  I 
would  record  the  dealings  of  God  with  my  soul.  In 
June  I  was  much  occupied  in  assisting  to  prepare  for 
a  fair,  but  I  did  it  as  a  task.  My  heart  was  not  as 
deeply  interested  as  I  thought  it  would  be.  But  I 
could  not  remain  long  in  this  state  without  being 
sensible  that  I  was  very  different  from  what  a  Chris- 
tian ought  to  be.  I  found  the  fear  of  man  had  been 
a  snare  to  me,  I  was  too  apt  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
confidence  and  good  opinion  of  others,  and  had  not 
sought  as  my  single  aim  the  approbation  of  God. 
In  July  I  was  quite  ill  for  a  few  days,  and  asked  my- 
self if  I  wished  to  die,  to  leave  this  world  and  go  to 
heaven;  to  my  shame,  I  found  I  was  not  willing  or 
ready.  I  had  been  living  for  myself,  and  had  hardly 
begun  to  do  any  thing  for  the  cause  of  Christ.  I 
prayed  that  I  might  recover  and  carry  out  the  plans 


Youth  and  Marriage,  53 

I  had  formed.  I  was  reminded  of  the  importance  of 
making  the  conversion  of  souls  a  prominent  object 
in  my  prayers.  I  found  that  had  not  been  my  cus- 
tom, but  that  my  own  salvation  and  that  of  my 
friends  had  been  my  principal  object.  I  resolved 
henceforth  to  obey  the  injunction  of  the  Saviour  in 
his  directions  to  his  church,  and  offer  as  my  first 
petition,  *  Thy  kingdom  come.'  I  have  been  sur- 
prised at  the  result  of  this  course,  a  deeper  interest 
in  the  prosperity  of  Zion,  more  spirituality  of  feeling, 
a  stronger  hope  of  my  own  safety,  and  a  more  inti- 
mate communion  with  God.  Yet  this  is  but  the 
natural  result  of  obedience  to  God.  He  is  faithful 
to  his  promises,  and  nothing  but  our  unbelief  makes 
us  surprised  when  we  experience  their  fulfilment.  I 
little  thought  at  this  time  for  what  my  Heavenly 
Father  was  preparing  me,  for  what  he  had  been 
humbling  me,  then  brightening  my  hope  and  strength- 
ening my  faith ;  but  soon  in  his  providence  he  taught 
me.  My  beloved  father  was  laid  on  a  bed  of  sick- 
ness, and  in  three  short  weeks  (September  15,  1833, 
at  the  age  of  sixty-five)  I  followed  him  to  the  grave. 
This  was  a  sudden  blow,  and  one  that  came  nearer  to 
my  heart  than  any  other  could  have  done.  It  seemed 
at  times  as  if  I  should  be  overwhelmed,  as  if  my  heart 
could  not  endure  this  dreadful  stroke  ;  but  my  faithful, 
covenant  God  was  with  me.     He  put  underneath  me 


54  Youth  and  Marriage, 

his  almighty  arm,  he  hid  me  in  the  secret  of  his 
tabernacle,  and  by  his  grace  he  kept  me  trusting  in 
him.  All  the  circumstances  .of  my  dear  father's  ill- 
ness were  ordered  in  mercy,  and  we  have  reason  to 
hope  that  he  slept  in  Jesus.  This  is  enough  to  call 
forth  everlasting  gratitude.  I  have  long  prayed  to 
be  weaned  from  the  world,  and  I  trust  this  was  in 
answer  to  my  prayer,  and  that  henceforth  I  shall  live 
to  the  glory  of  God.  I  trust  that,  over  the  remains 
of  my  departed  parent,  I  laid  hold  of  the  precious 
promises  to  the  fatherless.  God's  love  never  before 
seemed  to  me  so  precious.  I  wished  to  testify  of  its 
sufficiency  to  all  around.  I  felt  I  could  endure  any 
thing  that  would  thus  bring  me  near  to  him." 

In  a  letter  dated  September  i8,  1833,  to  Rev. 
William  Thompson,  a  friend  with  whom  she  was  at 
that  time  corresponding,  she  says,  *'  On  Sunday 
evening  my  father's  fever  assumed  a  serious  aspect 
that  proved  to  be  the  crisis  of  the  disease.  From 
that  hour  he  gradually  sank  until  Friday  morning, 
when  the  final  struggle  began,  and  just  as  the  last 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  illumined  the  western  sky,  his 
spirit  winged  its  flight  to  immortality.  I  feel  that 
my  father  came  to  Christ  with  a  deep  sense  of  sin,  a 
renunciation  of  his  own  righteousness,  and  a  desire 
to  receive  salvation  as  a  free  gift  through  a  crucified 
Redeemer.     His  soul  was  overwhelmed  with  the  love 


Youth  and  Marriage,  55 


of  Jesus  and  the  promises  of  God.  This  work  was  not 
all  deferred  to  the  hour  of  sickness  ;  for  weeks  before, 
his  mind  was  deeply  impressed  with  the  subject,  and 
he  told  me  he  had  formed  a  solemn  resolution  to  live 
to  the  glory  of  God.  He  was  actually  engaged  in 
arranging  to  transfer  the  business  to  my  brother,  that 
he  might  have  leisure  to  prepare  for  another  world. 

"  On  Friday  morning  he  was  perfectly  conscious, 
though  not  permitted  to  revive  sufficiently  to  give  us 
his  dying  blessing.  I  know  we  have  it,  for  he  evi- 
dently knew  us  all.  His  eye  turned  from  one  to 
another,  and  watched  us  as  we  stood  around  his  bed. 
We  feared  his  last  agony  would  be  severe,  but  God 
in  mercy  spared  us  this,  and  led  him  gently  through 
the  dark  valley.  But  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe 
these  sad  scenes.  If  you  have  ever  passed  through  a 
similar  affliction  you  know  too  well  each  circum- 
stance :  the  alternations  of  hope  and  fear  as  day  by 
day  you  stand  by  the  dying  pillow ;  and  then,  as  hope 
is  fast  receding,  to  watch  the  flickering  pulse,  that  was 
wont  to  beat  so  ivaimly  with  paternal  love,  and  to 
feel  the  last  quiver  tremble  to  your  touch ;  to  see 
that  mild,  bright  eye,  that  ever  beamed  in  fondness 
on  his  child,  fixed  and  glazed  in  death,  —  oh,  there 
is  an  anguish  in  this  that  none  can  know  but  those 
whose  hearts  have  been  thus  torn.  I  am  sorry  you 
did  not  know  my  father  when  you  were  here,  as  you 


56  Youth  and  Mai^rzage. 

could  not  have  known  him  without  esteeming  him, 
and  you  ought  to  know  his  worth  rightly  to  appre- 
ciate our  loss.  I  believe  I  possessed  his  entire  con- 
fidence, and  he  regarded  me,  in  common  with  my 
sisters,  rather  as  a  friend  than  a  child." 

The  winter  of  1832  she  spent  with  her  brother  John, 
then  a  practising  physician  in  Worcester,  Mass.  It 
is  of  him  she  says  in  an  early  letter,  "  I  have  not  only 
confided  in  him  as  a  brother,  but  have  been  warmly 
attached  to  him  as  a  friend."  The  records  in  her 
diary  of  longing  for  his  conversion,  and  his  letters  to 
her,  extending  from  her  childhood  to  her  marriage, 
all  carefully  folded  in  the  "  red  desk,"  are  the  reflex 
of  an  ideal  sisterly  love,  all  tenderness,  merriment, 
moralizing,  confidence,  and  unselfish  devotion  to  his 
comfort  and  his  higher  interests.  His  baby  son, 
Charles,  she  speaks  of  at  this  time  as  **  a  fine  child, 
and  so  like  my  dear  father." 

It  was  some  time  during  this  visit  that  she  first  met 
the  one  who  was  to  be  "  nearest  and  dearest."  The 
family  were  at  a  little  tea-party  at  the  house  of  Rev. 
John  C.  Abbott,  and  a  theological  student  from  An- 
di)ver,  William  Thompson,  was  of  the  company. 
His  first  and  lasting  impression  of  her  face  is  as  she 
stood  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  leaning  to 
look  at  an  engraving,  absorbed,  calm,  and  uncon- 
scious of  every  thing  but  the  picture. 


Youth  and  Marriage.  57 

She  remembered  him  as  one  with  whom  she  would 
hke  to  talk  again,  but  had  begun  to  think  that  would 
never  be,  when  one  day,  soon  after  she  went  home  to 
Northampton,  he  called  on  her.  The  next  day,  they 
climbed  Mt.  Holyoke  together,  and  were  in  the  midst 
of  a  happy  comparison  of  thoughts  and  purposes, 
when,  wishing  to  be  free  to  touch  bush  or  branch  in 
the  wood  path,  and  not  liking  to  spoil  the  new  gloves 
she  had  on,  she,  like  a  prudent  maiden,  drew  them  off, 
never  thinking  of  the  white  hand,  so  beautiful  it  could 
not  but  attract  attention.  Not  knowing  that  guileless 
soul,  he  was  slightly  repelled  by  what  struck  him  as 
a  possible  trick  of  feminine  vanity.  It  was  some- 
thing simpler  and  nobler  he  had  thought  he  saw  in 
her,  and  the  little  circumstance  checked  the  friend- 
ship. For  a  year  there  was  no  advance  beyond  a 
fitful,  occasional  correspondence.  "  You  will  smile," 
she  writes  him  afterward,  "  when  I  say  that  your 
silence  has  repeatedly  done  me  good,  by  showing 
me  from  my  disappointment  how  much  my  heart 
still  cleaved  to  the  world,  and  how  much  my  happi- 
ness still  depended  on  objects  of  time  and  sense." 
But  her  attraction  toward  the  seldom  seen  stranger 
was  slowly  dying  out,  and  life  beginning  to  take  on 
sober  tints,  as  she  walked  on  her  way  in  the  faithful 
round  of  home  and  church  duties,  when  suddenly 
came  her  father's  fatal  illness.     Impulsively,  and  as  a 


58  Youth  and  Marriage, 

vent  to  her  overburdened  heart,  she  told  her  anxiety 
and  distress  to  him,  as  a  letter  of  his  was  just  then 
waiting  for  an  answer.  In  response  to  his  next  one, 
she  told  him  of  her  father's  death.  His  reply  awak- 
ened a  deeper  sentiment  of  friendship  than  she  had 
felt  before.  She  recognized  a  comprehension  of  her 
deepest  experiences,  and  a  sympathy  sufficient  for 
even  that  time  of  distress. 

"  The  links  that  bound  their  hearts  together, 
They  were  not  forged  in  sunny  weather, 
Nor  will  they  moulder  and  decay 
As  the  long  hours  pass  away ; 
What  slighter  things  cannot  endure 
Will  make  their  love  more  safe  and  pure." 

Early  in  December  he  was  to  visit  her  in  North- 
ampton. He  had,  in  the  fall,  become  a  pastor  in 
North  Bridgewater  (now  Brockton),  Mass.  The  sud- 
den prevalence  of  scarlet  fever  in  his  parish  made 
him  feel  it  wrong  to  leave  his  people  for  any  personal 
end.  She  writes  to  him,  December  9,  1833,  "I  am 
sorry  to  have  your  intended  visit  deferred,  though  I 
am  the  last  one  who  would  wish  you  to  leave  your 
people  in  a  time  of  special  affliction,  for  your  own  or 
my  gratification.  I  know  too  well  the  value  of  a 
pastor's  visits  at  such  a  time  wantonly  to  deprive 
others  of  them." 

To  the  same  she  writes,  December  16,  "Self- 
reproach   is    a   frequent    and    unprofitable    exercise. 


Youth  and  Marriage,  59 

I  have  found,  upon  analyzing  my  feelings,  that  it  has 
often  been  nothing  more  than  a  kind  of  penance  for 
the  indulgence  of  some  darling  sin.  I  have  been 
contented  to  make  myself  unhappy,  rather  than 
simply  to  repent  and  forsake  my  sin.  Surely  this 
is  unacceptable  as  well  as  unwise.  It  cannot  please 
our  Heavenly  Father  to  see  us  wretched.  On  the 
contrary,  the  provision  he  has  made  for  our  happi- 
ness proves  that  he  desires  it.  How  much  we  need 
to  offer  the  prayer,  '  Lord,  increase  our  faith.'  If 
Edwards's  views  of  the  dealings  of  God  are  correct, 
surely  no  other  feelings  should  be  excited  in  our 
hearts,  when  enduring  affliction,  but  those  of  grateful 
love.  I  think  there  is  no  way  in  which  we  can  obtain 
such  a  sense  of  the  love  of  God,  as  by  contemplating 
the  manner  in  which  he  enables  his  people  to  resist 
and  overcome  sin ;  we  can  never  realize  what  an  evil 
and  bitter  thing  it  is,  unless  w^e  are  made  to  taste 
some  of  its  evils. 

"  A  happy  home  has  been  my  idol,  and  it  was  at 
this  the  blow  was  aimed ;  for,  dear  as  this  spot  is  and 
ever  must  be  to  my  heart,  it  can  never  seem  like 
home  to  me  again.  It  is  my  desire  to  live  hence- 
forth like  a  pilgrim  and  stranger  on  the  earth.  I 
know,  if  the  spirit  is  willing,  the  flesh  is  veiy  weak, 
but  I  know,  too.  He  is  faithful  who  promised,  who 
also  will  do  it." 


6o  Youth  and  Marriage, 


At  Christmas  time  the  deferred  visit  was  made, 
and  they  were  pledged  to  each  other. 

"  I  am  but  too  happy,"  she  writes,  January  3, 
1834,  "in  the  consciousness  that  I  have  given  my 
heart  and  my  happiness  to  one  who  possesses  my 
entire  confidence,  and  who  I  know  will  love  me 
better  than  I  can  ever  deserve.  In  heart  we  are 
already  one.  Henceforth  my  happiness  will  consist 
in  sharing  your  joys  and  sorrows,  in  relieving  your 
cares,  and  by  every  means  in  my  power  making  your 
home  a  peaceful  and  happy  retreat  from  the  anxieties 
of  your  arduous  duties." 

yaimary  11.  —  "To  say  that  I  can  part  with  so 
many  near  and  dear  friends,  under  the  thousand  ties 
that  have  been  accumulating  and  attaching  me  to 
this  loved  spot,  even  for  yon,  without  pain,  would  be 
a  libel  on  the  better  feelings  of  our  nature.  Surely, 
you  would  neither  love  nor  respect  me  could  you 
believe  it  possible.  Mr.  Todd  told  me  I  should  have 
so  many  things  to  occupy  my  attention,  I  should  not 
think  much  of  society.  But  enough  on  this  point 
My  greatest  fear  is  that  I  shall  not  realize  your  ex- 
pectations. You  have  formed  a  much  higher  opinion 
of  me  than  I  deserve.  One  thing  I  can  say  in  sin- 
cerity, I  desire  to  be  all  that  you  have  described,  and 
that  from  the  first  it  has  been  my  determination  never 
to  let  my  feelings  interfere  with  the  most  self-denying 


Youth  and  Marriage,  6i 

duties  to  which  you  may  be  called.  I  wish  to  feel 
that  we  are  united  in  the  service  of  our  Redeemer, 
that  we  belong  wholly  to  him,  and  that  we  must 
find  our  happiness  in  promoting  the  interests  of  his 
kingdom.  I  feel  that  we  must  specially  guard  our- 
selves on  this  point,  lest  we  become  so  much  en- 
grossed in  our  personal  happiness  as  to  forget  our 
higher  and  holier  obligations.  We  know  our  Heav- 
enly Father  is  not  displeased  when  we  are  happy  in 
the  enjoyment  of  his  rich  blessings.  We  know,  too, 
that  he  is  not  pleased  when  we  rest  here. 

*'  Is  it  a  continual  effort  for  a  true  Christian  to 
keep  his  heart  on  spiritual  things,  or  does  it  rise 
spontaneously  to  heaven?  David  says,  'When  I 
awake  I  am  still  with  thee.'  Ought  we,  or  ought  we 
not,  to  require  this  heavenly  state  of  mind  as  an  evi- 
dence of  discipleship?  I  have  been  much  tried  of 
late  with  these  questions,  for  I  do  not  find  that  dead- 
ness  to  the  world  which  I  think  I  ought  to  possess. 
You  will  have  a  wayward  heart  to  guide  in  the 
straight  and  narrow  way,  but  with  all  its  imperfections 
it  will  never  know  change  in  its  devotion  to  you." 

While  she  w^as  still  expecting  and  hoping  to  be  a 
pastor's  wife,  an  old  friend,  Mrs.  President  Wheeler, 
of  the  Vermont  University,  wrote  her :   "  My  dear,  I 
^    know  you  do  not  intend  to  have  your  happiness  con- 
sist  in  having  every  earthly  circumstance  suited  to 


62  Youth  and  Marriage, 


your  taste.  The  wife  of  a  minister  of  the  gospel 
must  rise  above  this  and  breathe  in  a  higher  air.  She 
must  find  her  happiness  in  doing  good,  and  her  re- 
ward not  in  the  notice  or  admiration  of  the  world." 

In  January,  1834,  it  was  proposed  to  her  friend 
Mr.  Thompson  to  leave  his  parish  and  take  the 
professorship  of  Hebrew  in  the  new  theological 
seminary  about  to  be  established  at  Windsor  Hill, 
Conn.  She  writes,  January  28  :  "I  felt  unwilling  at 
first  to  say  a  word  about  it,  lest  it  should  influence 
your  decision  improperly;  but  since  you  have  asked 
my  opinion,  I  will  give  it  frankly.  The  more  I  think 
of  the  matter,  the  more  I  am  averse  to  your  acceptance 
of  the  appointment.  I  cannot  think  your  opportu- 
nities of  usefulness  can  be  so  great  as  in  the  station 
you  now  occupy,  and  it  does  not  seem  to  me  so  re- 
sponsible or  important  an  office.  It  may  be  one  of 
more  ease  and  personal  gratification,  but  I  have 
greatly  mistaken  your  character  if  those  motives 
would  influence  you  a  moment.  If  you  were  truly 
called  of  God  to  North  Bridgewater,  methinks  you  can 
hardly  have  accomplished  so  soon  the  work  appointed 
for  you  there.  I  have  heard  Mr.  Todd  speak  of  this 
institution,  but  so  slightly  that  I  hardly  know  whether 
he  approves  of  its  establishment  or  not.  Indeed,  I 
have  hardly  known  any  thing  about  it,  and  but  little 
more  of  Taylorism,  to  which  it  is  opposed.     As  far 


Youth  and  Marriage.  63 

as  I  am  informed  in  this  particular,  I  should  agree 
with  them ;  but  I  fear  that  if  this  has  not  been  got 
up  in  a  party  spirit,  it  will  excite  such  a  spirit.  At  any 
rate,  those  connected  with  it  must  almost  necessarily 
be  constantly  engaged  in  controversy.  That,  cer- 
tainly, is  very  undesirable.  I  have  perhaps  spoken 
rashly.  Further  light  may  alter  my  opinion,  but  as 
it  is,  it  strikes  me  it  would  be  foolish  for  you  to  go. 
There  is  not  sufficient  inducement  to  make  it  your 
duty  to  leave  the  ministry,  especially  when  the  call 
for  laborers  is  so  great.  If  you  decide  to  go,  forget 
what  I  have  said,  and  be  assured  I  shall  acquiesce  in 
whatever  arrangement  you  may  be  led  in  the  Provi- 
dence of  God  to  make. 

"  I  have  mentioned  it  to  no  one  but  Daniel,  and 
he  laconically  replied,  '  He  had*  better  stay  where  he 
is.'  It  shall  be  my  increasing  prayer  that  God  will 
guide  you  with  heavenly  wisdom,  that  you  may  be 
delivered  from  all  unhallowed  motives  and  secure  his 
approbation." 

February  4.  —  "I  have  feared,  since  I  wrote,  that  I 
spoke  too  hastily  and  too  decidedly  considering  the 
light  I  had  on  the  subject,  and  though  I  have  seen  as 
yet  no  reason  for  altering  my  opinion,  I  have  thought 
perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  expressed  one.  Be  as- 
sured of  this  one  thing,  my  loved  friend,  where  you 
are,  there  is  my  home  and  there  shall  I  be  happy. 


64  Youth  and  Marriage. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  half  how  precious  your  minia- 
ture is  to  me.  It  has  a  small  black  string  attached 
to  it,  and  is  entirely  concealed  in  the  folds  of  my 
dress,  so  that  I  can  wear  it  without  attracting  obser- 
vation. The  longer  I  look  at  it,  the  more  distinctly 
can  I  trace  your  image. 

*'  Willingly  can  I  leave  every  other  friend  and 
dwell  with  you.  My  friend,  Elizabeth  S.,  left  this 
morning  for  New  York,  to  try  the  effect  of  change 
and  sea  air.  I  fear  she  will  never  be  better.  Com- 
panions from  childhood,  and  bosom  friends  for  years, 
I  often  looked  forward  to  the  time  when,  in  fulfilment 
of  a  mutual  promise,  I  should  stand  as  bridesmaid  by 
her  side." 

April  4.  —  "I  was  in  the  garden  this  morning, 
watching  the  progress  of  the  flowers,  and  after  some 
searching  espied  a  '  Forget-me-not,'  the  first  flower 
that  has  opened  its  delicate  petals  to  welcome  the 
spring.  I  enclose  it  for  you.  Look  on  it  and  think 
of  '  one  who  will  forget  thee  never!  " 

The  following  June,  Mr.  Thompson's  call  to  the 
Connecticut  Seminary,  which,  after  serious  considera- 
tion, he  had  declined  in  the  winter,  was  repeated;  a 
committee  visited  him,  and  pressed  his  acceptance  by 
the  most  perplexing  appeals  to  his  conscience  and 
spirit  of  self-sacrifice. 

"I  did  hope,"  Eliza  Butler  writes,  "that  the  call 


Youth  and  Ma^^riage,  65 

from  Windsor  would  not  be  renewed.  My  personal 
feeling  about  it  remains  unchanged,  but  you  know, 
my  dear  friend,  I  would  not  have  that  influence  your 
decision  either  way." 

After  long  debate,  the  perseverance  of  the  Connec- 
ticut committee  was  rewarded  by  his  consent  to  the 
call  of  a  council  to  whom  the  whole  matter  should 
be  referred.  He  accepted  their  decision,  and  after  a 
pastorate  of  one  year,  left  Bridgewater  for  Windsor. 
True  to  her  word,  when  the  decision  was  made,  Eliza 
Butler  accepted  it  quietly,  buried  her  bright  dreams 
of  sharing  with  him  the  parish  life,  which  had  a  pecu- 
liar attraction  for  her,  and  poured-  out  her  sympathy 
for  him  in  the  experience  which  he  wrote  her  was 
"  like  tearing  limb  from  limb." 

Once  before  that  she  had  written,  "  I  dreamed 
last  night  that  you  were  here,  and  had  decided  not 
to  leave  Bridgewater."  But  after  this  no  more  is 
said.  It  was  not  till  years  had  passed,  and  her  chil- 
dren were  grown,  that  any  one  knew  what  it  had  cost 
them  both  to  go  cheerfully  to  Windsor. 

**  It  matters  little,"  she  writes  him,  "  in  what  part  of 
the  vineyard  it  shall  be,  if  we  are  found  at  last  to  be 
faithful  laborers.  I  feel  in  your  society  the  wilder- 
ness would  lose  its  gloom  and  the  desert  its  dreari- 
ness. In  contributing  to  your  happiness  and  enjoying 
your  love,  my  days  would  pass  on,  I  might  almost 

5 


66  Youth  and  Marriage, 

say,  unmarked  by  a  shade  of  sorrow;  but  that  would 
be  an  unreal  picture,  too  full  of  joy  for  this  transitory 
life. 

''  I  can  never  be  sufficiently  grateful  for  the  gift  of 
such  a  friend,  whose  sympathy  and  affection  I  have 
so  much  reason  to  value  ;  but,  by  the  help  of  God,  my 
dearest  friend,  I  will  not  suffer  you  to  do  the  work 
of  an  enemy  and  wean  my  affections  from  my 
Saviour.  I  have  found  by  bitter  experience,  that 
even  your  love,  precious  as  it  is,  would  be  a  poor 
compensation  for  the  loss  of  his  favor." 

June  26.  —  "  I  do  feel  that  our  affection  is  not  of 
a  selfish,  worldly  nature,  but  a  hallowed  flame,  and 
one  that  I  trust  will  grow  brighter  and  brighter  to 
eternity.  The  more  my  heart  expands  with  love  to 
God,  and  I  feel  the  presence  of  my  Saviour,  the 
more  strongly  is  my  heart  bound  to  you.  I  have 
just  returned  from  Miss  D.'s,  where  I  have  spent  an 
hour  in  prayer  and  conversation  with  her  and  another 
sister.  Miss  D.  spoke  of  the  importance  of  seeking 
and  carine  for  the  health  of  the  soul  with  the  same 
earnestness  we  do  for  the  body.  If  we  watch  and 
pray  in  any  measure  as  we  ought,  shall  we  not  know 
when  the  soul  is  diseased,  and  apply  the  remedy? 
Miss  D.  spoke  of  the  duty  of  Christians  inquiring  of 
each  other,  when  they  meet,  the  state  of  their  soul's 
health,  and  thought  the  reserve  on  this  subject  a 
device  of  the  adversary." 


Yo7ith  and  Marriage.  6y 

The  love  that  had  been  born  in  shadow  was  not 
nursed  wholly  in  sunshine.  Aside  from  the  trial  of 
feeling  in  regard  to  leaving  Bridgewater,  there  were 
perplexities  of  another  nature.  After  her  father's 
sudden  death,  it  was  found  he  had  so  involved  him- 
self by  loans  to  a  relative  who  had  failed  in  business, 
that  his  estate  settled  far  differently  from  what  had 
been  expected.  Instead  of  having  the  means  to  fur- 
nish her  new  home  with  every  comfort,  as  she  had 
hoped,  in  the  autumn,  she  had  the  pain  and  mortifica- 
tion of  finding,  before  the  spring  opened,  that  her 
outfit  must  not  only  be  curtailed,  but  managed  with 
the  utmost  economy.  Debts  were  held  in  that 
family  to  be  more  binding  than  any  matter  of  feel- 
ing or  personal  comfort,  and  Eliza  acquiesced  in  the 
course  taken  by  her  mother,  to  pay  from  her  own 
private  income  her  husband's  obligations  as  far  as 
possible,  while  all  outlay,  even  for  the  daughter's 
marriage,  was  brought  within  the  strictest  limits. 

The  respect  in  which  he  had  been  held,  and  the 
knowledge  that  his  embarrassments  were  the  results 
of  nothing  more  than  excess  of  confidence  and  kind- 
ness, did  not  prevent  some  of  the  wealthier  creditors 
from  profiting  by  the  honorable  self-sacrifice  of  the 
widow  and  children,  while  others  less  able  refused  to 
allow  them  to  straiten  and  cripple  themselves. 

It  was  with  a  rather  heavy  heart  that  Eliza  wrote 


68  Youth  and  Marriao-e, 

to  Mr.  Thompson,  "  If  you  had  seen  me  last  night, 
you  would  have  seen  a  long  face  and  a  sad  one."  . 
After  stating  the  difficulty,  she  says :  "  Your  disap- 
pointment is  not  the  least  fruitful  source  of  sadness. 
I  did  not  like  to  have  the  family  see  how  much  I 
felt,  and  it  was  not  till  I  had  retired  to  the  solitude 
of  my  room  that  I  gave  vent  to  my  feelings.  The 
image  of  my  beloved  father  came  to  mind,  who  would 
have  relieved  me  from  all  this  care,  but  who  was 
now  cold  and  silent  in  the  grave,  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  wants  or  affection  of  his  child.  But  I  was 
not  alone.  I  felt  there  was  One  who  by  these  little 
disappointments  was  making  me  realize  the  perma- 
nency and  value  of  his  love.  Have  we  not,  my  be- 
loved friend,  committed  our  way  unto  him,  and 
besought  him  not  to  leave  us  to  ourselves,  and  shall 
we  now  withdraw  our  trust  and  murmur  because  he 
is  answering  our  prayer  and  leading  us  by  a  way  we 
know  not?  I  think  I  can  say,  'Though  he  slay  me, 
yet  will  I  trust  in  him.' 

*'  I  went  out  to  Avalk  this  morning,  called  on  Mrs. 
T.,  found  her  in  great  anxiety  for  one  of  her  children 
who  is  quite  ill,  —  that  bright,  black-eyed  little  girl  you 
saw  there.  The  little  boy  has  also  been  sick,  and  Mr. 
B.  has  an  infant  son  on  the  verge  of  the  grave.  Here 
is  real  trouble,  and  I  thought  how  selfish  and  sinful  I 
was  to  feel  unhappy  for  a  moment,  because  every 


Youth  and  Marriage,  69 

wish  of  my  heart  could  not  be  gratified.  I  hope 
your  feehngs  are  under  better  control  than  mine  have 
been.  I  have  dreaded  to  tell  you  what  I  know  you 
would  not  love  to  hear,  especially  at  this  time  when 
you  feel  such  a  weight  of  anxiety ;  but  still  I  felt  that 
sooner  or  later  you  must  know  it,  and  I  should  not 
mend  the  matter  by  deferring  it." 

In  the  next  letter  her  unconquerable  hope  begins 
to  brighten.  She  thinks  it  much  "  harder  for  Daniel 
than  for  herself,  because  after  having  been  engaged  a 
year,  this  trouble  will  oblige  him  to  defer  his  mar- 
riage two  years  more." 

Their  wedding-day  was  finally  fixed  for  September. 
Her  busy  hands  were  more  than  full  with  sewing  and 
preparation,  but  till  within  a  fortnight  of  the  time,  she 
went  on  with  her  daily  study  and  recitations  at  Miss 
D.'s,  only  pausing  then  because  she  must,  and  prom- 
ising herself  that  they  should  be  resumed  immedi- 
ately after  her   marriage. 

*'  You  would  be  gratified,"  she  writes,  *'  to  hear  the 
many  kind  expressions  of  affection  and  regret  which 
I  hear  on  every  side,  not  only  from  my  particular 
friends  and  associates,  but  from  those  with  whom  I 
have  incidentally  been  brought  in  contact  in  the 
humbler  walks  of  life.  I  shall  be  in  danger  of  think- 
ing of  myself  more  highly  than  I  ought  to  think." 

Referring   to   some  arrangements,    she   says,   in   a 


Jo  Youth  and  Man^iage. 

letter  of  August  28  :  "  We  do  indeed  need  to  possess 
our  souls  in  patience.  There  is  nothing  that  natu- 
rally tries  me  more  than  this  state  of  suspense,  but  I 
am  happy  to  say  it  has  this  time  not  in  the  least 
ruffled  my  spirit.  I  feel  at  this  moment  perfectly 
willing  Providence  should  order  each  event  as  Infi- 
nite Wisdom  determines.  I  have  in  general  been 
able    to    take    things    quietly." 

In  the  last  letters  before  her  marriage,  she  says : 
"  In  thinking  of  the  best  means  of  promoting  our 
happiness  and  usefulness  in  the  married  state.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  much  advantage  would  accrue  from  the 
habit  of  conversing  with  freedom  and  confidence  on 
our  personal  experience  in  religion.  Unless  we  are 
on  our  guard,  there  is  danger  that  the  duties  of  the 
family  and  the  thousand  interesting  occurrences  of 
the  day  will  preclude  this  important  topic. 

"  It  requires  no  effort  to  picture  myself  by  your 
side  on  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  river  we  visited  in 
July,  with  its  deep  green  woods  and  its  calm  surface 
reposing  in  the  soft,  still  moonbeam.  Aside  from 
the  tender  recollections  associated  with  the  falling 
leaf,  autumn  is  to  me  a  hallowed  season.  If  it  is  sad, 
it  is  a  cheerful  sadness.  The  vigor  and  freshness  of 
spring  seem  like  the  commencement  of  a  new  exist- 
ence, but  when  that  freshness  is  gone  and  that  vigor 
decays,  we  feel  that  the  fashion  of  this  world  passes 


Youth  and  Marriage.  71 

away,  and  we  are  hastening  to  the  rest  of  eternity. 
This,  while  it  chastens  our  happiness,  need  not  dimin- 
ish it,  and  while  it  makes  us  grave,  need  not  make  us 
sad. 

"  It  is  almost  impossible  for  us  to  realize  the  ex- 
tent of  the  influence  we  shall  exert  upon  each  other, 
both  in  spiritual  and  temporal  things,  and  unless  the 
Lord  hallow  that  influence,  it  will  drag  our  aff'ections 
earthward.  My  dear  William,  the  bars  of  the  grave 
will  undoubtedly  close  upon  one  of  us,  and  leave 
the  other  desolate,  and  were  it  not  for  the  hope 
of  blessed  reunion  beyond  its  narrow  precincts,  the 
thought  of  an  attachment  like  ours  would  be  miser- 
able." 

The  last  entry  in  her  diary  is  dated  August  24, 
1834.  "  I  am  looking  forward  in  a  few  weeks  to  the 
most  important  earthly  connection  ever  formed,  one 
that  will  materially  afl"ect  my  happiness  and  useful- 
ness in  this  world,  and  my  hopes  beyond  the  grave. 
I  bless  God  for  giving  me  such  a  precious  friend  as  I 
possess  in  his  servant,  that  I  have  been  kept  from 
giving  my  affections  to  one  who  did  not  love  Christ, 
and  have  been  permitted  to  bestow  them  upon  one 
who  is  consecrated  to  his  service.  And  now,  blessed 
Saviour,  smile  upon  us,  and  if  we  are  permitted  to 
pitch  our  tabernacle  and  dwell  together,  may  we  so 
regulate  our  affections  and  conduct  that  we  shall  aid 


72  Youth  and  Marriage. 

each  other  in  every  duty,  promote  each  other's 
growth  in  grace,  and  exert  a  happy  influence  on 
those  around  us.  And  now  I  renewedly  consecrate 
myself  to  thee ;  all  the  afl'ections  of  my  soul,  this 
precious  friend,  all  that  I  have  or  may  have,  to  thee 
and  thy  service.  Help  me  to  resolve  to  perform  the 
duties  of  a  wife,  and  the  head  of  a  family,  according 
to  the  requisitions  of  thy  Word.  I  now  resolve  to 
give  my  husband  my  undivided  confidence  and  love, 
to  obey  him  in  the  Lord ;  never  to  stand  in  the  way 
of  his  duty,  or  hold  him  back  from  self-denial  and 
suffering  for  the  sake  of  Christ,  but  aid  him  in  every 
duty  by  my  prayers,  counsel,  and  efforts,  as  God 
shall  give  me  grace.  His  friends  shall  be  my  friends, 
his  interests  mine.  Resolved  to  honor  God  in  my 
family,  to  order  my  household  according  to  his  word, 
to  honor  the  Sabbath,  and  to  be  governed  by  the 
directions  of  God  in  the  various  relations  of  the 
family.  Resolved  to  be  hospitable  to  strangers,  kind 
to  the  afflicted,  and  above  all  to  lend  my  influence, 
time,  and  talents  to  the  promotion  of  Christ's  king- 
dom in  the  earth.  Blessed  Saviour,  thou  hast  heard 
these  solemn  vows ;  thou  knowest  my  weakness  and 
depravity,  —  that,  if  left  to  myself,  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  redeem  them.  Wilt  thou  magnify  the  riches  of  thy 
grace,  perfect  thy  strength  in  my  weakness,  and  use 
me  and  mine  as  instruments  for  thy  glory." 


Yotitk  and  Marriage,  J2> 

The  wedding  was  on  the  25th  of  September,  1834. 

"  I  very  distinctly  remember  her  appearance  on 
that  morning,"  writes  one  of  her  cousins.  '*  She  was 
rather  tall  and  slight;  her  whole  bearing  was  en- 
tirely self-possessed,  and  in  her  artless,  girlish  sim- 
plicity she  seemed  to  stand  there  because  she  had 
been  told  to."  In  the  little  book  which  holds  her 
wedding  bouquet,  there  is  a  pressed  violet  not  wholly 
faded  yet. 

Their  wedding  journey,  which  gave  them  a  glimpse 
of  the  Vermont  mountains  and  Lake  George,  lasted 
a  week  or  two,  and  in  October  they  arrived  at  Wind- 
sor, where  the  Theological  Seminary  was  opening  its 
first  session. 

It  is  amusingly  characteristic  of  her  life-long  in- 
difference to  what  she  thought  unessential,  that  in  a 
letter  from  her  sister  Maria,  which  met  her  at  New 
York  on  this  trip,  she  is  exhorted  to  wear  "  a  white 
shawl,  not  the  red  one,  if  the  weather  grows  cool,  as 
the  white  one  is  more  proper." 


CHAPTER  III. 
THE  HEAT  AND  BURDEN  OF  THE  DAY. 


III. 

THE  HEAT  AND  BURDEN  OF  THE  DAY. 

"  Still  thou  turnedsf,  and  still 
Beckonedst  the  tretnbler,  and  still 
Gavest  the  -weary  thy  hatid. 
•  .  •  •  • 

To  lis  thon  wast  still 
Cheer/id,  and  helpful,  and  firm  \ 
Therefore  to  thee  it  was  given 
Many  to  save  with  thyself'' 

Arnold. 

*•  "X/'OUR  mother  was  a  lovely  bride,"  a  dear  friend 
used  to  say.  "  I  shall  never  forget  how  her  face 
looked,  when  she  first  came  into  our  house,  in  her 
cottage  bonnet  tied  down  with  a  white  ribbon.  Her 
complexion  was  exquisite,  not  red,  but  pink  and 
white,  and  besides  being  so  pretty,  she  had  such  a 
look  of  goodness." 

One  of  her  first  joys  was  the  meeting  with  her 
husband's  family,  his  father  having  removed  from 
Norwich  to  Windsor  the  year  before.  ''  Her  manner 
was  winning  and  very  quiet,"  says  a  sister;  "  but  what 
drew  us  to  her  most,  at  first,  was  the  expression  of 
her  eyes,  so  beautiful,  clear,  and  true,"  — 

-  *'  Eyes  too  expressive  to  be  blue, 

Too  lovely  to  be  gray." 


yS       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day. 

From  the  moment  of  the  first  kiss  of  welcome  to 
*'  WiUiam's  wife,"  there  was,  to  the  end,  on  both  sides, 
warmth  and  constancy  of  love. 

The  strength  of  his  mother's  character  impressed 
her  at  once  and  increasingly.  '*  Your  Grandmother 
Thompson  was  a  remarkable  woman,"  was  one  of 
her  common  sayings  in  after  years ;  and  she  always 
insisted  that  the  tie  of  blood  could  not  have  made 
the  two  sisters  more  truly  sisters  to  her.  With  so 
much  positiveness  of  character  on  all  sides,  one  must 
believe  there  was  opportunity  for  friction;  but  for 
them, 

"  Love  was  always  lord  of  all.". 

Whatever  tears  were  to  be  shed,  as  separation  and 
death  came  in  the  different  circles,  there  were  never 
mingled  those  of  broken  confidence. 

For  a  year  the  home  was  in  Mr.  Ellsworth's  family, 
and  there  the  first  child  came  and  went. 

In  October  of  1835  their  house  was  finished,  and 
they  began  housekeeping  in  it,  gathering  as  many 
family  friends  as  possible  around  them  when  they 
sat  down  for  the  first  time  at  their  own  table.  There 
was  no  lack  of  quiet  merry-making;  but  at  the  close 
it  was  with  the  hush  of  hearts  that  realized  what  is 
wrapped  up  in  the  founding  of  a  new  home,  that 
they  knelt  and  consecrated  it  with  fervent  prayer. 

The  region  of  the  Seminary  was  charming,  as  is  all 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day,       79 

of  the  Connecticut  Valley.  One  enthusiastic  friend 
of  the  institution,  standing  for  the  first  time  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill  and  looking  off  on  the  winding  river, 
the  meadows,  and  the  old  elms,  exclaimed  with  em- 
phasis, "  The  millennium  will  begin  here." 

The  new  Professor's  house,  however,  was  planted 
literally  in  a  sand-bank.  There  was  not  a  blade  of 
grass  or  a  tree,  nothing  to  fill  out  the  idea  of  home 
to  eyes  from  which  the  Pleasant  Street  picture  had  not 
yet  faded. 

Eliza  Butler  had  recorded,  in  the  diary  of  her  girl- 
liood,  her  longings  for  a  missionary  life,  and  a  desire 
to  ser\'e  God  in  India  or  the  Sandwich  Islands.  She 
now  found  herself  called  upon  to  meet  many  of  the 
privations  and  to  make  the  peculiar  sacrifices  of  such 
a  life,  with  none  of  its  romance  to  smooth  the  way. 
The  enterprise  with  which  she  and  her  husband 
were  identified  was  struggling,  doubtful,  unpopular. 
Funds  were  scarce,  the  salary  a  pittance,  the  atmos- 
phere necessarily  one  of  debate  and  antagonism.  "  I 
was  at  the  sewing-society  yesterday,"  wrote  ]Maria 
Butler,  from  Northampton,  to  her  sister,  during  that 
first  year,  "  and  the  girls  were  mourning  over  you. 
They  said  Eliza  Butler  was  being  spoiled,  her  letters 
were  full  of  nothing  but  Taylorism  and  Tylerism." 

In  her  new  surroundings  she  was  easily  fired  with 
the  same  ardent  belief  in  the  essential  nature  of  the 


8o       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  tJie  Day. 

doctrinal  distinctions  of  the  Seminary,  which  had  in- 
spired  its  founders.  Once  convinced  that  Christ's 
kingdom  was  to  be  furthered  by  the  institution,  all 
her  single-hearted  devotion  was  turned  into  that 
channel. 

That  remarkable  hereditary  resemblance  to  the 
grandmother,  with  whom  the  church  leaders  of  her 
day  had  discussed  doctrine  and  precept,  now  came 
out  in  the  granddaughter.  She  entered  with  zeal  into 
the  theological  discussions  about  her,  and  grasped 
the  various  points  with  clearness  and  force. 

It  was  said  of  her,  by  David  N.  Lord,  of  the  Theo- 
logical Review,  who  knew  Mrs.  Thompson  in  these 
years,  that  he  had  never  met  a  lady  so  intelligently 
informed  on  theological  subjects.  It  was  partly  due 
to  the  cast  of  her  mind,  delighting  in  this  as  in  any 
other  science,  and  partly  to  the  profound  genuine- 
ness of  her  spiritual  nature,  which  transfused  with  its 
own  warmth  whatever  related  to  religion. 

There  was  no  such  thing  as  debasing  the  moral 
currency  in  her  presence.  Something  in  the  solid 
dignity  of  that  true  face  silenced  the  flippant  word. 

To  the  child  at  her  knee  uttering  what  to  her 
seemed  passionate  blasphemy  out  of  its  too  early 
protesting  and  stormy  soul,  she  had  something  to 
offer  better  perhaps  than  the  convincing  word, — 
the  sudden  whitening  of  her  cheek,  which  made  evi- 


The  Heat  and  Btirden  of  the  Day,       8 1 

dent  beyond   any  doubt  her  own  reverent  love  for 
God. 

The  strong  conservatism  of  her  mind  fitted  her  to 
work  naturally  in  her  new  relations.  She  was  ex- 
tremely tenacious  in  every  direction,  averse  to  all 
changes,  assenting  with  reluctance  and  long  debate 
even  to  those  which  time  afterward  taught  her  had 
been  altogether  best.  Wherever  she  took  rest,  either 
in  feeling,  thought,  custom,  or  place,  there  it  was  her 
tendency  to  abide  firmly.  Up  to  the  last  of  her  life 
she  placed  no  reliance  on  the  daily  weather  indica- 
tions, because,  not  having  cared  to  investigate  the 
grounds  on  which  their  value  rested,  she  classed 
them  in  general  with  "  signs  "  and  heathenish  divina- 
tions, which  in  her  girlhood  Dr.  Spencer  had  taught 
her  were  '*  of  the  adversary." 

She  looked  with  alarm  on  changes  of  method  as  in 
danger  of  involving  change  of  essence.  In  that  in- 
tricate composition  of  forces  by  which  some  guard 
and  some  explore,  and  the  resultant  is  safe  advance, 
her  part  was  with  the  guard. 

That  practical  good  sense  whose  germs  had  been 
plainly  visible  in  her  earlier  life,  began  to  develop 
rapidly  under  the  new  circumstances. 

If  there  were  theological  students,  they  and  their 
rooms  must  be  made  comfortable ;  and  the  house- 
keeping   had    hardly    begun,   when    a    certain    attic- 

6 


82       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

closet  was  set  apart  for  clothing  and  bedding  for  that 
purpose.  It  was  deposited  with  her  by  the  ladies' 
sewing-societies  of  the  region,  and  much  of  it  made 
under  her  own  supervision  by  the  circle  of  ladies  in 
the  town,  over  which  she  presided,  and  in  which  she 
worked  unsparingly  for  years.  She  distributed  what 
was  gathered,  with  motherly  sympathy  and  discrimi- 
nating care.  One  great  secret  of  her  triumphant  life 
was  her  habit  of  distinguishing  between  great  and  lit- 
tle things.  Little  things  were  not  to  be  minded,  —  mo- 
mentary discomforts,  trifling  annoyances,  or  physical 
pain,  unless  it  was  extreme.  Her  tender  heart  and 
her  well-balanced  mind  went  side  by  side  with  her 
deep  religious  convictions,  in  the  drawing  of  this  line, 
and  kept  her  from  great  errors.  When  it  was  drawn, 
it  was  found  to  bar  out  on  the  side  of  trifles,  what 
the  majority  of  men  and  women  find  great  enough 
for  controlling  motives.  She  was  thus  free  to  follow 
steadily  worthy  ends.  She  steered  straight  by  the 
unessential,  content  to  miss  much,  while  she  pressed 
toward  the  mark.  It  was  this  —  this  heroism  of  noble 
purposes  and  high  conceptions,  and  her  courage 
born  of  faith  —  that  made  her  very  face  and  voice 
such  a  stimulus  and  help.  *'  Cloudy  fears  and  shapes 
forlorn  "  flew  away  where  she  entered. 

All   this,  however,  was   not  full   grown  when    my 
father  and  mother  set  about  turning  the  sand-bank 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day,        Z'}^ 

into  a  home.  She  remembered,  afterward,  more  than 
one  heart-sinking,  and  more  than  one  tear  brushed 
away  before  it  could  be  seen. 

The  step  from  the  girhsh  Sunday-afternoon  musing 
**  by  her  favorite  window  "  into  the  intricacies  of  hfe, 
of  which  those  musings  had  given  her  no  hint,  was 
one  to  test  the  fibre  of  ardent  aspirations.  The 
problems  that  meet  all  women  who  have  any 
strength  of  nature  met  her.  Her  experience  was 
nowhere  shallow.  But  it  was  her  habit  to  grapple 
with  difficulties  rather  than  to  sink  under  them  or 
to  chafe  too  long.  The  young  face,  that  looked  con- 
fidingly out  from  under  the  cottage-bonnet  as  she 
stepped  from  the  carriage,  in  the  light  of  the  yellow 
maples  and  the  sunset  of  that  October  day  which 
brought  her  to  the  Ellsworth  mansion,  concealed  un- 
guessed  reserves  of  force. 

Many  a  time,  later,  she  laughed,  in  recounting  how 
the  seeds  they  first  planted  in  the  garden  blew  away, 
the  soil  was  so  light.  But  every  trip  to  Northampton 
brought  back  stores  of  bulbs,  shrubs,  and  choice 
apple-tree  cuttings ;  the  perseverance  that  would 
not  be  baffled  found  out  that  clay  would  conquer 
sand,  and  before  the  children  were  old  enough  to 
remember,  maples  and  locusts,  horse-chestnuts  and 
fir-trees,  were  growing  everywhere.  There  were 
willows  by  the  little    brook,  shrubs    in    the    ravine, 


84         The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

terraces,  vines  on  the  arbor  trellis,  flowers  of  every 
sort  in  the  garden,  and  in  every  nook  where  they 
could  be  put ;  and  for  the  winter,  what  blooming  of 
callas,  of  pink  cactuses  in  blue  jars,  of  heliotropes 
and  carnations,  what  trailing  of  ivies  and  passion- 
flowers ! 

In  the  spring,  when  the  turf  was  green  and  the 
orchard  in  bloom,  and  the  bees  were  humming 
among  the  hyacinths  and  daffodils,  she  delighted 
to  recall  the  contrast,  with  a  feeling  that  the  now 
lovely  place  had  been  created  by  a  determination  to 
succeed. 

Little  by  little  cares  thickened.  The  time  for  pur- 
suing Latin  and  philosophy  did  not  come.  Much 
that  had  been  anticipated  slipped  into  the  list  of 
things  deferred,  and  a  sort  of  unconscious,  undra- 
matic  silence  flowed  over  them,  while  the  tides  of 
cheerful,  active  life  rose  and  fell  more  and  more 
strongly  above. 

How  can  it  be  told  what  those  years  were !  The 
enterprise  to  which  her  husband  had  given  all  the 
hope  and  ambition  of  his  youth  dragged  slowly  on. 
Every  step  was  a  struggle.  Funds  accumulated 
slowly,  and  salaries  continued  small,  while  wants  in- 
creased. Every  year  large  subscriptions  were  made 
from  that  meagre  sum  to  the  Seminary,  because  it 
was   felt  to   be    for   Christ's   sake,   while   the    empty 


The  Heat  a7id  Burden  of  the  Day,         85 

library  shelves  in  the  husband's  study  remained 
unfilled,  and  the  needs  of  the  growing  family  were 
supplied  only  by  the  closest  economy  and  strictest 
industry  on  the  part  of  the  young  mother.  The 
slender  white  hands  grew  used  to  all  sorts  of  house- 
hold toil.  Others  gave  thought,  sympathy,  money, 
—  they  gave  not  only  that,  but  literally  themselves. 
Never,  but  for  a  few  months,  in  all  the  period  of  her 
housekeeping,  did  she  have  a  house-maid  who  could 
render  any  but  the  most  indifferent  service.  And 
never,  but  for  periods  of  a  few  weeks,  had  she  any 
one  to  assist  in  the  care  of  the  children.  When  there 
were  five,  as  when  there  was  one,  it  was  she  who  was 
seamstress,  nursery-maid,  and  often  cook. 

The  week  before  her  wedding,  she  said  to  her 
friend  Elizabeth,  as  they  walked  down  the  street,  hav- 
ing a  last  talk,  that  her  great  dread  was  of  not  being 
equal  to  what  would  befall  her.  "  I  am  not  quick, 
you  know,"  she  said.  *'  I  cannot  turn  off  things 
as  some  can,  and  a  great  deal  of  the  time  I  do  not 
feel  strong."  "  No,  Eliza  Butler,"  was  the  answer, 
"  but  you  can  endure.  That  will  be  worth  more  to 
you  than  quickness."  Her  own  sense  of  weariness 
or  illness  she  always  concealed  till  it  reached  the 
point  of  positive  disease,  and  she  had  to  succumb. 
Often,  she  used  to  say,  she  had  held  herself  in  her 
chair  at  her  sewing,  when  from  nervous  exhaustion 


86        The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day. 

it  seemed  every  moment  as  if  she  must  scream  and 
throw  the  work  aside ;  but  ahvays  held  herself  there 
until  it  was  done,  taking  so  many  patient,  intermina- 
ble stitches  in  the  little  coats  and  aprons,  before  the 
days  of  sewing-machines  and  ready-made  garments, 
sitting  up  late  with  the  aching  back  and  head,  that 
only  mothers  know,  to  turn  and  mend  and  make 
over,  after  the  hard  long  day  and  wakeful  nights 
with  the  babies,  so  that  what  her  skill  and  labor 
saved  might  go  to  pay  the  subscription  to  the  Semi- 
nary and  build  up  the  good  cause.  - 

It  was  in  such  days  as  these  that  many  a  student, 
oppressed  with  poverty  and  unable  to  meet  his  board- 
bills,  was  welcomed  for  months  at  their  table,  with  a 
hospitality  so  cheerful  that  it  was  many  a  time  -tm- 
appreciated.  Aside  from  the  deliberate  sacrifices 
made  for  Christ's  sake,  no  kind  of  pain  or  want  ap- 
pealed to  her  in  vain.  If  there  was  ever  a  house 
where  there  were  "  tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  all 
distress,"  it  was  theirs.  Effort,  trouble,  discomfort, 
were  not  reckoned.  In  summer  and  winter,  no 
matter  what  the  accumulated  basket  of  sewing,  or 
whether  Bridget  was  in  the  kitchen  or  not,  she  was 
ready  to  go  to  the  sick,  to  watch  with  them,  to  use 
her  skill  in  making  the  arrowroot  or  beef-tea,  that  no 
one  else  could  do  quite  so  well.  There  was  no  com- 
fortable hotel  in  the  village,  so  that,  among  others, 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day,        %"] 


their  house  naturally  became  a  home  for  all  friends  of 
the  Seminary,  travelling  ministers,  or  agents ;  and  in 
all  cases  there  was  but  one  thought,  ''  Blessed  is  he 
that  Cometh  in  the  name  of  the  Lord." 

The  only  exception  ever  known  was  in  the  early 
days  of  her  housekeeping,  when  a  certain  brother 
tarried  long,  and  was  finally  discovered  to  have 
adopted  the  guest-room  closet  as  the  depository  of 
his  horse-blanket,  when,  with  a  spark  of  righteous  in- 
dignation, the  young  matron  repaired  to  the  study, 
and  announced  that  that  she  could  not  submit  to. 

Consecration  was  no  mystery  to  her,  but  a  most 
practical  experience.  The  social  training  of  her 
youth  was  offered  on  the  same  altar  with  greater  gifts. 
Seeing  that  the  students  needed  more  social  life  than 
they  were  likely  to  have,  for  their  pleasure  and  their 
good,  twice  every  year  she  gave  them  an  entertain- 
ment, inviting  seventy  or  more,  as  it  happened,  quite 
regardless  of  the  fact  that  the  cake  must  be  made 
with  her  own  hands,  and  the  ice-cream  churned  by 
an  interminable  process  in  her  own  cellar.  She  had 
seldom  time  to  arrange  her  hair,  in  these  days,  after 
the  fashion  of  her  girlhood,  but  sometimes  for  these 
special  occasions  she  did,  and  her  appearance  is  well 
remembered,  as  she  welcomed  her  guests  with  a 
sweet  sincerity  that  set  the  whole  evening  in  the 
right  key. 


88        The  Heat  aftd  Burden  of  the  Day, 

More  than  once  it  happened  that  after  the  invita- 
tions were  given,  her  husband  would  be  attacked 
with  violent  sick-headache,  to  which  he  was  subject 
nearly  every  week.  She  would  come  from  bathing 
his  head,  to  receive  her  company,  without  a  sign  of 
disquiet,  or  hint  in  face  or  manner,  of  confusion  and 
disappointment. 

How  she  was  valued  by  the  students  is  well  told 
by  the  tribute  of  Dr.  E.  W.  Bentley,  read  at  the 
Seminary  anniversary  in   1879. 

"  Very  rarely,  for  a  long  course  of  years,  has  this  anniver- 
sary failed  of  the  light  and  cheer  of  Mrs.  Thompson's  pres- 
ence. Indeed,  so  identified  was  she  with  the  social  element 
of  our  anniversary,  that  to  many  of  us  this  day's  home-coming 
is  akin,  in  its  chastened  sadness,  to  the  Thanksgiving  anni- 
versary in  the  homestead  whence  the  mother's  face  and  form 
are  gone  for  ever.  Mrs.  Thompson  was  the  connecting  link 
between  many  of  us  and  much  that  is  plea^antest  and  longest- 
lived  in  our  seminary  associations.  Whatever  may  be  true 
since  the  removal  of  the  Seminary  to  the  city,  and  the  conse- 
quent widening  of  the  social  circle  around  it,  I  feel  warranted 
in  saying  that  at  East  Windsor  Hill,  our  seminary  '  home- 
life  '  centred  largely  in  Mrs.  Thompson.  Our  circumstances 
there  were  somewhat  peculiar.  Our  numbers  all  told  were 
few,  and  class  distinctions,  however  informal  and  loosely 
held,  narrowed  still  more  the  area  of  our  restricted  intima- 
cies. Most  of  us  were  fresh  from  our  large  college  associa- 
tions with  their  attendant  and  varied  excitements,  and  we 
found  it  hard  to  settle  ourselves  down  into  the  narrow  grooves 
in  which  our  seminary  life  seemed  to  drag  itself  along.     And 


The  Heat  and  Bitrdcii  of  the  Day.        89 

the  outside 'neighborhood  was  nearly  as  contracted  as  the 
Seminary.  The  famihes  who  cared  for  our  acquaintance, 
though  cultured  and  refined  and  hospitable,  were  still  infre- 
quent and  scattered.  And  thus  isolated,  the  homelike  ease 
and  restfulness  of  Mrs.  Thompson's  parlor  and  sitting-room, 
near  at  hand,  drew  us  thither  when  we  cared  to  go  nowhere 
else.  In  those  days  iSIrs.  Thompson's  family  circle  was  un- 
broken. The  law  of  love  hedged  gently  in  her  group  of 
children.  .  .  .  Happening  in  at  whatever  hour,  we  found  a 
cheerful  welcome.  Doubtless  we  wearied  her  often  with  our 
budgets  of  personal  interests  and  petty  concerns ;  but  if  so 
she  never  disclosed  the  fact.  Encouraged  by  her  sympathy, 
we  made  her  the  confidante  of  hopes  and  struggles  and  as- 
pirations, such  as  grown-up  boys  intrust  only  to  their  mothers 
or  elder  sisters.  In  .the  occasional  social  gatherings  to  which 
we  were  invited  in  the  neighborhood,  it  was  Mrs.  Thompson's 
quick  notice  and  kindly  tact  that  placed  us  at  once  at  ease, 
and  drew  the  best  side  of  us  socially  to  the  front.  Some  of 
us  —  I  speak  for  the  more  awkward  and  bashful  ones  among 
us  —  almost  uniformly  rated  our  enjoyment  of  the  hour  by 
her  presence  or  absence. 

"  Still  another  service  Mrs.  Thompson  rendered  us.  She 
was  an  admirable  critic.  She  grasped  a  subject  firmly,  and 
examined  it  firmly  and  leisurely.  And  especially  did  its 
strong  points  never  escape  her.  She  had  in  full  training  an 
eye  for  proportions.  Nothing  that  was  mismatched  or  un- 
balanced or  lop-sided  eluded  her  notice.  Hence  her  sug- 
gestions concerning  subjects  and  modes  of  treating  them  — 
subjects  which  in  many  cases  subsequently  grew  into  essays 
and  addresses  and  sermons  —  were  of  special  use  to  us  in 
our  raw  apprenticeship.  In  our  debates  and  public  exer- 
cises, which  she  did  penance  in  attending  with  persistent 
regularity,  her  presence  and  intelligent  interest  gave  us  cour- 


90         The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

age  and  stimulated  endeavor.  Some  of  us  will  never  forget 
how  patiently  she  followed  us  through  our  protracted  discus- 
sion of  the  '  Maine  Law,'  beginning  some  time  in  January, 
in  the  Seminary  chapel,  and  ending  along  in  March,  down  at 
the  South  Windsor  Lecture  Room.  An  immense  service  of 
this  kind,  a  service  which  only  a  rare  delicacy  of  perception 
like  hers  could  discern  and  appreciate  the  importance  of, 
Mrs.  Thompson  rendered  to  the  students  year  after  year ; 
encouraging  them  to  undertake  literary  work,  broadening 
their  area  of  thought,  and  keeping  them  toned  up  to  a  high 
key  of  earnestness  and  zeal. 

"  Another  way  in  which  Mrs.  Thompson  served  us  most 
efficiently  was  through  her  devoted  attachment  to  the  Semi- 
nary and  her  familiarity  with  its  principles  and  aims.  To 
present  this  service  in  its  entirety  would  compel  me  to  en- 
large upon  the  peculiar  position  of  the  Institute  at  that  time, 
and  to  speak  of  difficulties  and  temptations  which  tended  to 
shake  our  faith  in  it  and  to  break  down  our  loyalty  to  it. 
But  this  is  neither  the  time  nor  place  for  such  a  showing. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that,  both  from  within  and  without,  a 
pressure  was  put  upon  us,  sometimes  annoying  and  at  all 
times  troublesome.  We  were  young  men  with  aspirations 
for  usefulness  and  ambitious  of  success.  We  were  desirous 
to  know  and  obey  the  truth,  but  at  the  same  time  did  not 
want,  if  we  could  help  it,  to  be  put  without  the  pale  of  popu- 
lar sympathy  and  support. 

"  And  in  steadying  us  under  these  malign  influences,  I 
think  no  agency  was  more  potential  than  Mrs.  Thompson's. 
She  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  the  presence 
and  weight  of  these  disturbing  forces,  and  combated  them 
with  a  quiet  tact  and  assiduity.  She  believed  in  the  Seminary 
with  all  her  heart.  She  understood  its  relations  to  other  semi- 
naries, and  to  the  commonwealth  of  the  churches.     She  com- 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day,        9 1 

prehended  its  mission,  and  was  rooted  and  grounded  in  the 
faith  of  its  distinctive  character  and  work.  And  the  earnest- 
ness and  enthusiasm  of  her  convictions  were  contagious.  She 
seemed  never  to  be  troubled  with  doubts  and  misgivings. 
Whoever  else  was  discouraged,  her  faith  was  unshaken.  I 
believe  there  were  times  when,  if  Mrs.  Thompson  had  lost 
heart  or  hope,  the  Seminary  would  have  been  closed  by  the 
wasting  away  of  its  classes  ;  and  I  certainty  know  that  there 
were  times  when  the  work  which  she  did  in  keeping  up 
courage  and  inspiring  content  among  the  students  was 
simply  heroic.  I  am  free  to  confess  that  the  fulness  of  my 
sympathy  with  the  Seminary  and  my  confidence  in  its  errand 
and  life,  came  to  me  through  the  persuasiveness  of  Mrs. 
Thompson's  far-sighted  and  strong  convictions. 

"  Still  another  channel  of  Mrs.  Thompson's  influence  over 
the  every-day  life  of  the  Seminary  was  her  piety.  It  would 
have  been  strange  if  she  had  not  been  a  theologian.  The 
activity  and  acuteness  of  her  intellect,  playing  in  a  theo- 
logical atmosphere,  rendered  that  a  necessity.  Her  piety 
rested  back  upon  a  foundation  of  truth  systematically  laid. 
And  to  that  foundation  she  adhered  with  unswerving  fidelity. 
She  was  unyielding  as  a  rock,  where  principle  was  concerned, 
true  as  steel  to  her  conscientious  views  of  truth  and  duty. 

"  But  on  the  other  hand,  out  of  her  theology,  as  out  of  a 
deep  and  carefully  cultivated  soil,  there  grew  a  verdure  of 
exquisite  grace  and  beauty.  What  her  head  perceived  and 
what  her  heart  felt,  her  voice,  eye,  and  hand  showed  forth. 
Loving,  genial,  gentle,  tenderly  considerate  of  the  happiness 
of  others,  stirred  to  sympathetic  action  by  the  slightest  signal 
of  sorrow  or  want,  she  easily  made  for  herself  a  straight 
passage-way  into  the  inner  recesses  of  the  life  of  those  about 
her.  With  a  winning  sweetness  she  touched  here  a  doubt, 
and  it  was  dissolved  ;  there  a  fear,  and  it  vanished  away ;  and 


92        The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day. 

anon  a  hope,  and  it  flashed  into  a  flame.  And  so  graceful 
and  loving  was  the  ministry,  that  you  discerned  in  it  far  less 
of  her  than  of  Him  in  whose  name  she  ministered. 

"  And  this  blending  of  strength  with  beauty,  of  rigidity 
with  grace,  of  ornament  with  use,  was  a  lucid  commentary 
upon  the  truths  which  we  were  daily  handhng.  A  system 
which  issued  in  such  a  life,  and  a  life  that  so  adorned  the 
system,  we  knew  had  an  eternal  fitness  and  a  divine  sanction. 
The  argument  from  such  an  example  was  conclusive.  We 
were  not  laboring  in  vain  nor  spending  our  strength  for 
naught.  The  Word,  in  manner  and  form  as  unfolded  to  us, 
was  suited  to  win  the  world  to  heaven." 

Whatever  the  emergency,  the  greater  it  was,  the 
calmer  she  grew,  concentrating  all  on  the  duty  of  the 
moment,  and  not  showing,  till  all  was  over,  the  strain 
of  self-control.  Some  traits  of  her  great-grandfather, 
the  wise  old  physician,  showed  here. 

Doctors  rejoiced  to  meet  her  at  the  sick-bed,  know- 
ing she  could  be  relied  on  not  to  flinch  or  fail,  and 
never  to  let  her  own  ease  hinder  the  doing  of  what 
ought  to  be  done.  Can  any  one  wdio  ever  felt  what 
her  care  in  sickness  was  ever  express  or  ever  forget 
it?  The  touch  of  her  hand  was  an  anodyne.  It  was 
so  tender  and  so  firm,  while  her  sweet,  pitying  look 
carried  a  kind  of  assurance  of  relief.     It  was 

"  Continual  comfort  in  a  face," 

when  she  bent  over  the  hot  pillow,  soothing,  minis- 
tering, bringing  broth  that  was  exactly  right,  watch- 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day.        93 

ing  the  long  nights  through,  and  for  successive  weeks 
giving  no  sign  of  weariness,  except  in  the  fading  of 
the  pink  in  her  cheeks  and  the  slow  whitening  about 
her  dear,  patient  mouth. 

She  was  all  this  to  others  besides  husband  and 
children.  It  was  her  hand  that  smoothed  the  way  to 
death  for  the  mother-in-law,  whose  home  was  with 
them  for  the  last  year  of  her  life,  and  whom  she 
treated  with  the  most  unfailing  love  and  honor.  It 
was  her  privilege  to  watch  by  her  own  mother  in  her 
last  illness,  in  1849,  and  be  with  her  at  the  close. 
When  the  fatal  illness  came  to  her  niece  at  Piermont, 
there  was  no  hand  like  Aunt  Eliza's  to  wait  upon  her, 
feeding  her  soul  with  living  bread  while  she  com- 
forted the  wasting  body.  How  many  dying  eyes 
she  closed,  into  how  many  dying  ears  she  spoke  the 
name  of  Him  who  lived  in  her,  while  she  so  loved  and 
gave  herself  for  them. 

In  1842  she  had  what  was  supposed  to  be  a  fatal 
attack  of  lung-fever.  The  physician,  a  most  incom- 
petent one,  had  given  her  up.  A  weeping  group 
was  standing  round  her  bed,  expecting  the  great 
change  every  moment,  when  her  lips  moved  slightly, 
and  they  caught  a  whisper.  It  sounded  like  ''spirit." 
It  was  thought  to  refer  to  her  parting  soul ;  and  they 
were  straining  their  ears  to  hear  if  perhaps  she  would 
finish  what  would  be  her  last  word  of  faith,  when  the 


94        ^'^^  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, . 

same  whisper  came  again.  "  Oh,"  said  the  doctor, 
starting  from  his  paralysis,  *'  she  means  for  us  to  give 
her  spirits.  Quick  !  she  may  have  it.  Is  there  any 
here?"  Before  the  spoon  could  be  brought  to  her 
lips,  her  jaws  were  set  so  firmly  that  they  were 
obliged  to  pry  them  open,  and  he  succeeded  in  pour- 
ing a  little  into  her  mouth.  She  swallowed  it ;  another 
spoonful  was  brought,  and  she  swallowed  that.  The 
pulse  began  to  beat  faintly  again,  while  every  breath 
was  held  in  that  agony  of  suspense  almost  worse  than 
despair.  The  treatment  was  repeated,  and  she  came 
back  to  her  husband,  and  the  three  little  children 
who  were  sleeping,  all  unconscious  of  the  love  that 
was  stronger  than  death. 

She  well  remembered  the  experience,  the  feeling 
that  she  was  slipping  away,  the  thought  that  she 
miist  not  die,  that  brandy  would  save  her,  and  the 
effort  to  utter  the  word. 

It  was  a  very  characteristic  act ;  one  flutter  of  fear 
would  have  turned  the  scale,  but  of  fear  she  knew 
little. 

Phantoms  that  haunt  the  darkness,  possible  bur- 
glars, all  imaginary  dangers,  were  idle  folly  to  her 
mind.  The  differing  temperament  of  some  of  her 
children  was  a  puzzle  to  her.  If  a  brooding  dove 
should  hatch  orioles,  or  a  swan  sea-gulls,  there 
might   be   something   of   the    same    surprise.      The 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day.         95 

causes  of  the  desire  for  a  lamp  at  night,  the  dread 
of  going  alone  into  a  dark  room  or  even  into  the 
cellar, -the  ecstasies  and  glooms  and  unregulated 
outbursts,  were  beyond  her  ken.  She  yielded  to  the 
decision  of  the  father,  that  these  things  should  be 
respected  as  beyond  the  child's  control,  and  they 
were  well  comprehended  by  him,  —  but  with  an  evi- 
dent mortification,  as  at  a  sign  of  weakness  or  lack 
of  right  reason.  Any  thing  in  any  direction  that 
could  be  termed  silly,  she  could  ill  brook. 

There  are  faithful,  true  mothers,  who  }'et  are  never 
exactly  motherly ;  but  this  one  had  not  only  the 
mother-heart  for  all  the  suffering  world,  the  brood- 
ing, helpful  impulse  toward  all  sorrow  and  need,  but 
the  sweet  comfortableness  that  knows  just  how  to 
gather  the  tired  baby  limbs  into  her  arms,  and  smile 
and  kiss  away  the  little  troubles.  Their  play  was 
dear  to  her,  and  her  laugh  was  as  merry  as  theirs. 
No  matter  what  mountains  of  sewing  were  waiting 
and  pressing,  she  took  time  to  devise  some  happy 
surprises  for  the  New  Year,  birthday-cakes  and 
wreaths  as  each  birthday  came  round ;  to  consider 
dolls  for  the  girls  and  kites  for  the  boys. 

Not  all  the  instruction  she  perseveringly  gave 
them  in  Scripture  or  Catechism  so  interpreted  in- 
finite love  and  sacrifice  to  their  hearts,  as  her  patient 
step  on  the  stair,  climbing  with  tired  feet  to  soothe 


96        The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

their  fright  or  toothache.  Love  that  could  do  and 
suffer  and  never  fail,  was  the  one  thing  that  was 
always  sure.  They  might  sometimes  weary  a  little 
of  the  distinction  between  moral  and  natural  ability 
and  inability,  their  precise  connection  with  Adam's 
fall,  and  the  exact  way  in  which  imputation  of  sin 
and  righteousness  fits  into  the  Divine  government; 
but  their  own  existence  was  not  surer  than  the  deep 
unselfishness  of  her  daily  life,  and  her  most  impressive 
teachings  were  those  most  unconsciously  given. 

"  The  blessed  Master,  who  can  doubt, 
Revealed  in  saintly  lives." 

They  knew  something  real  came  from  that  daily 
morning  visit  to  the  only  quiet  room  where  the  door 
could  be  locked,  and  the  serious  eagerness  on  her 
face  when  she  sat  studying  her  red  Bible  stole  pro- 
foundly into  their  hearts,  while  it  was  still  a  hope- 
less puzzle  what  could  so  delight  her  in  the  Prophets 
and  the  Psalms. 

**  Other  worldliness,"  that  half-hypercritical,  half- 
fanatical  way  of  ridding  one's  self  of  the  duties  of 
this  life  by  absorption  with  the  next,  is  apt  to  react 
on  those  nearly  connected  in  disgust  and  scepticism. 
UiLivorldliness  is  as  comforting  as  it  is  logical. 
The  realness  and  simplicity  of  her  nature  would  have 
made  the  life  of  a  genuine  "  society  woman  "  Impos- 
sible to  her. 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day,         (^j 

That  intricate  system  of  half  truths  and  whole 
falsehoods,  in  which  words  and  deeds  are  nicely  ad- 
justed to  immediate  effect,  and  social  advantage  is 
the  widest  horizon  of  the  mind,  seemed  to  her  a 
mournful  waste.  In  her  vocabulary  lying  was  lying, 
no  matter  how  skilfully  done ;  and  her  habit  of  call- 
ing things  by  their  right  names  made  her  unconscious 
directness  as  inconvenient  and  uncomfortable  at  times, 
as  the  presence  of  John  the  Baptist  at  Herod's  court, 
or  as  would  be  the  entrance  of  St.  Francis  d'Assisi 
into  a  company  of  modern  Epicureans. 

Her  confiding  disposition  and  her  own  genuine- 
ness made  her  slow  in  reading  the  diagnosis  of  souls 
poisoned  by  the  malaria  of  insincerity.  She  had 
none  of  the  sharp  suspiciousness  which  results 
sometimes  from  a  morbid  self-distrust,  and  some- 
times from  the  limitations  of  a  shallow  and  calculat- 
ing nature;  but  when  —  as  in  a  life  of  seventy  years 
who  does  not?  —  she  found  herself  deceived  and  dis- 
appointed, she  did  not  grow  bitter.  There  would  be 
a  time  of  quiet  thinking,  a  little  absent-mindedness, 
unusual  to  the  company  of  children  who  expected  to 
find  her  in  a  certain  chair  by  the  west-window,  at  her 
work-basket,  all  eyes  and  ears  for  them  at  every  in- 
rushing  from  play  or  school.  If  some  one  of  them, 
vaguely  seeing  what  was  not  understood,  stole  out 
for  a  damask  rose  to  fasten  in  her  dress,  she  would 

7 


98        The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

turn  with  a  warmer  kiss  and  a  sweeter  smile  than 
usual,  finding  in  the  love  that  remained  compensa- 
tion for  what  was  lost.  The  first  sharp  pang  over,  and 
the  matter  thought  through,  her  resolve  was  taken. 

The  letters  signed  "  Yours  fondly,  faithfully,  and 
for  ever,"  by  hands  that  so  easily  traced  more  than 
the  heart  meant,  were  left  lying  where  they  were. 
If  there  was  no  more  happiness  to  be  had  from  that 
source,  there  might  still  be  some  to  give.  It  seemed 
to  her  ignoble  and  unworthy  to  allow  pride  to  over- 
rule affection.  She  could  still  be  kind,  though  she 
had  been  mistaken.  She  could  better  bear  to  be 
thought  lacking  in  "  proper  resentment "  than  to 
know  herself  lacking  in  the  quality  that  "beareth 
and  hopeth  all  things." 

*'  It  is  a  talent  to  love.  I  lacked  it,"  says  the 
mother  in  "  Daniel  Deronda."  "  Others  have  loved 
me,  and  I  have  acted  their  love,"  —  the  key  of  more 
tragedies  than  hers. 

The  "  talent  of  loving "  this  mother  had.  More 
than  one  person  to  whom  she  was  unfailingly  generous 
and  patient  would  be  startled  to  know  how  accurately 
she  had  weighed  their  motives,  and  from  how  much 
deeper  a  source  than  careless  good-nature,  sprang 
the  unfailing  cordiality  of  her  hand. 

That  constancy  and  love  are  not  marketable  arti- 
cles   as    the    world    goes,    did    not   weigh   with    this 


The  Heat  and  Btirden  of  the  Day.        99 

woman,  who  followed  implicitly  that  One  whose 
kingdom  is  not  of  this  world.  Having  loved  his  own, 
did  He  not  love  them  unto  the  end?  Knowing  long 
and  well  the  falseness  of  a  friend,  did  He  vary  in  his 
tender  patience?  Was  He  not  content  to  bear  and 
hide  all  personal  wounds,  if  He  only  might  win  the 
weak,  tempted  one  to  a  better  way?  Did  He  not 
bend  to  wash  his  feet  at  the  last  moment,  if  possi- 
bly that  final  touch  of  gentleness  might  save  him? 
She  would  argue,  "  It  is  enough  for  the  disciple  to 
be  as  his  Lord." 

She  used  sometimes  to  say,  "  I  read  and  hear  a 
ereat  deal  about  wasted  love.  I  do  not  like  it  or 
believe  it.  Such  writers  call  something  love  that  is 
not  it.  True  love  is  the  rarest  thing  in  the  world. 
There  can't  be  too  much  of  it,  and  whoever  has  it 
to  give  is  the  better  for  it;  it  can't  be  wasted." 
With  her  usual  thoroughness  the  doctrine  was  ap- 
plied in  all  departments.  One  morning  her  daughters 
came  in  from  the  garden  with  a  basket  of  flowers, 
with  exclamations  of  delight  over  their  beauty,  as 
they  arranged  them  in  the  vases,  declaring  they 
loved  them  more  than  could  be  told.  **  No,"  said 
she,  looking  up  from  her  sewing,  ''  you  don't  love 
what  you  are  not  willing  to  work  for.  When  you 
are  as  ready  to  weed  and  transplant  as  you  are  to 
arrange,  you  may  say  you  love  flowers." 


I  oo       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

Her  fondness  for  Scotch  history  and  the  Scotch 
character  was  ahvays  veryrnarked.  The  stories  of  the 
Covenanters,  of  Claverhouse  and  his  troopers,  were 
household  words.  She  hked  to  talk  of  the  Highland 
independence,  and  to  alternate  "  Scots  wha  hae  with 
Wallace  bled,"  w4th  "  Hush,  my  dear,"  in  singing 
the  children  to  sleep. 

Snatches  of  Burns's  poetry  were  often  on  her 
lips.  She  particularly  liked  the  "  Epistle  to  a  Young 
Friend." 

"  Ye  '11  try  the  world  fu'  soon,  my  lad ; 
And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me, 
Ye  '11  find  mankind  an  unco  squad, 
And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye." 

Approving  with    a  positive  nod  when  she   came  to 
the  verse,  — 

"  But  ah  !  mankind  is  unco  weak, 
And  little  to  be  trusted ; 
If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake, 
'T  is  rarely  right  adjusted." 

Occasionally,  too,  she  would  recite  remembered 
bits  of  Percival,  — 

"  I  saw  on  the  top  of  a  mountain  high, 
A  gem  that  shone  like  fire  by  night." 

But  on  the  busy  week-days  there  was  seldom  time 
for  reading  aloud.  In  the  pressure  of  baking  and 
brewing,   mending   and  making,   there  was    scarcely 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day.       loi 

ever  a  quiet  hour  when  the  mother  could  allow  her- 
self to  gather  the  children  round  her  to  hear  a  story. 
One  day  in  the  week  was  different  from  all  the  rest. 
Before  half  past  ten,  the  time  for  the  Sunday  morn- 
ing service,  all  five  of  the  children  were  made  ready 
for  church,  and  the  Sunday-school  lesson  reviewed. 
All  went  together  to  the  service  in  the  Seminary 
chapel,  morning  and  afternoon,  and  to  the  Sunday- 
school  at  noon.  Then  there  was  time  to  learn  the 
Catechism  and  the  hymn  to  recite  at  evening  prayers, 
and  while  the  feeling  of  repression  began  to  relax, 
the  light  falling  in  longer  rays  across  the  meadows 
and  the  garden,  all  the  fibres  of  the  soul  sensitive 
from  the  influences  of  the  day,  after  the  hymn  had 
been  sung,  was  the  time  for  reading  Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress. A  common  book  read  in  her  clear  voice  and 
natural  intonations,  if  it  was  the  only  one,  and  at 
that  hour,  would  have  been  remembered  always ; 
but  when  fiction  of  all  other  sorts  was  forbidden, 
and  children's  books  were  almost  unknown,  the  vivid 
imagery  of  that  great  work  seized  the  imagination 
with  an  intense  hold,  and  all  human  life  easily  re- 
solved itself  into  a  succession  of  solitary  pilgrimages 
through  the  Slough  of  Despond,  up  the  Hill  Diffi- 
culty, into  the  cave  of  Giant  Despair,  over  the  land 
of  Beulah,  across  the  river,  and  beyond  the  gates  of 
the  shining  city. 


I02       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day. 

The  book  was  begun  when  the  youngest  child  was 
a  baby  in  the  cradle,  and  read  over  and  over  with 
notes  and  comments,  till  the  baby  was  old  enough 
to  read  it  herself,  holding  that  and  the  kitten  together 
in  her  lap  with  an  equal  affection,  in  the  low  chair  by 
the  open  fire. 

When  my  mother  had  been  married  about  ten 
years,  the  proposition  came  to  her  youngest  sister  to 
go  on  a  mission  to  Syria.  The  circle  of  young  ladies 
in  Northampton,  to  which  the  sister  belonged,  made 
a  great  outcry  against  it,  protesting  that  it  was  a 
monstrous  sacrifice,  and  that  she  should  not  so  bury 
herself.  To  them  a  round  of  tea-parties  and  the 
general  comfortableness  of  refined  society  seemed  a 
more  rational  end  of  existence  than  to  share  in  the 
work  of  putting  the  story  of  Jesus  Christ  into  the 
language  of  millions,  to  whom  his  words  and  ways 
were  quite  unknown.  My  mother  judged  differ- 
ently of  ends,  and  the  thought  that  one  so  dear  to 
her  should  not  do  the  best  thing  was  more  than 
she  could  bear.  She  broke  away  from  the  tangle 
of  household  care,  and  went  to  Northampton  to 
help  the  sister  fight  her  battle  and  hold  to  her 
choice.  Who  that  knew  her  but  can  see  just  how 
she  enveloped  the  right  with  so  cheerful,  clear  an 
atmosphere,  that  the  way  seemed  plain  and  possi- 
ble.    When  her  own  hands  had  made  the  wedding- 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day.      103 


cake,  and  packed  the  trunks  that  were  to  be  unpacked 
so  far  away,  and  her  strong  faith  and  courage  had 
held  up  the  parting  one  through  the  farewells  and 
the  setting  out,  only  then  she  found  space  for  her 
own  tears,  and  to  acknowledge  the  sharp  heart-ache 
of  the  separation  from  one  who  from  babyhood  had 
been  her  pet  and  darling. 

Distances  in  those  days  were  greater  than  now, 
and  for  the  one  who  remained  in  her  native  valley, 
it  was  a  long  good-by  to  her  who  went  to  live  in  the 
shadow  of  Mt.  Lebanon,  and  among  Syrian  palms 
and  oleanders.  There  was  no  expectation  of  her 
return.  *'  Until  the  resurrection  of  the  just,"  was  as 
real  a  part  of  the  good-by,  as  if  the  coffin  lid  had 
closed  upon  the  cherished  face. 

The  arrival  of  letters  in  envelopes  queerly  cut 
through  in  crosswise  shape  was  an  event  in  the 
household,  suggesting  to  the  children  their  first  no- 
tions of  quarantine,  —  very  vague  ones,  quarantine 
figuring  in  their  minds  as  a  sort  of  fierce  tyrant, 
dressed  like  a  Koord,  according  to  the  pictures  in 
the  geography,  and  missionary  life  assuming  a  some- 
what serious  character  to  their  thought,  from  this 
dim  connection  with  Asiatic  cholera,  as  well  as  from 
the  necessity  of  writing  on  so  very  thin  paper  and 
having  the  letters  cut  in  the  post-office. 

How  eagerly  she  read  these  letters,  entering  into 


I04       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

every  experience  with  a  love  untouched  by  time  or 
distance,  welcoming  the  distant  nieces  and  nephews 
as  they  came  to  the  home  she  had  never  seen,  pack- 
ing boxes  from  time  to  time  for  the  missionary  sister, 
with  such  tender  heartiness,  teaching  her  children  that 
it  was  a  privilege  to  send  their  most  cherished  keep- 
sakes to  those  who  had  gone  so  far  away  to  teach 
the  heathen  people  the  wonderful  love  of  Christ. 

In  later  years  she  wrote  to  a  married  daughter: 
''  I  have  noticed  that  the  time  of  young  motherhood, 
when  the  children  are  small,  and  all  one's  strength 
apparently  demanded  for  the  care  of  their  physical 
wants,  is  a  time  of  great  spiritual  danger." 

But  in  these  very  years  my  mother  added  to  her 
untiring  faithfulness  in  household  duties,  persistent 
striving  after  closer  union  with  God,  feeling  that 
spiritual  life  was  something  deeper  than  a  succession 
of  right  actions. 

That  saints  in  cloisters  and  retreats  should  aspire 
toward  holiness  and  yearn  for  personal  communion 
with  God,  we  ever  find  inspiring,  and  so  keep  Fene- 
Ion  and  A  Kempis  on  our  tables  for  a  portion  of  our 
daily  food ;  but  there  is  surely  a  deeper  reverence 
due  to  the  mother  who,  training  five  children  under 
disadvantages  such  as  beset  ours,  still  under  and 
through  all  seeks  growth  in  the  life  of  the  soul,  and 
to  know  the  will  of  God  in  every  thing. 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day,       105 

"  Aunt  Eliza  is  not  a  saint,"  said  a  young  niece, 
hearing  her  called  so;  "  she  is  bright  and  happy  like 
the  rest  of  us,"  seeing  no  asceticism  and  not  pene- 
trating her  secret. 

One  has  only  to  recall  the  instances  he  has  known 
of  women  whose  youthful  diaries  were  full  of  relig- 
ious fervor,  nearly  as  ardent  as  that  we  find  in  Eliza 
Butler's,  and  whom,  a  few  years  later,  he  has  found 
measuring  things  by  purely  worldly  standards,  all 
absorbed  in  securing  playmates  of  good  social  con- 
nections for  John  and  Addie,  in  arranging  Nannie's 
first  party,  and  selecting  baby's  sashes,  having  re- 
duced their  religion  to  a  decorous  church-going,  a 
mechanical  Bible-reading,  and  a  general  intention  to 
do  **  about  right," — he  has  only  to  recall  it  all,  to  feel 
there  is  something  worth  recording  in  this  living  fire 
of  piety,  ''  which  many  waters  of  earthly  care  could 
not  quench,  nor  floods  of  toil  drown." 

The  youngest  child  was  still  a  tiny  baby  in  her 
arms,  when  Dr.  Spencer  published  his  *'  Pastor's 
Sketches,"  a  unique  book  in  its  record  of  soul  treat- 
ment. His  old  parishioner  read  it,  and  wrote  him. 
His  answer  has  a  certain  pathos,  and  reveals  his 
estimate  of  her. 

My  very  dear  Child^  —  It  has  given  me  much  pleas- 
ure to  read  your  kind  letter.  The  reading  is  associated 
with  many  tender  and  sacred  recollections  of  past  days, 


io6       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

when  the  sun  of  your  youth  and  mine  (comparatively)  was 
shining  in  its  strength.  Now,  you  the  mother  of  five 
children  ?  How  time  rolls  on  !  And  are  your  cheeks  as 
rosy  as  ever,  and  your  fine  hair  as  flowing  ?  Ah,  time 
changes  us !  Would  that  it  always  prepared  us  for  our 
last  change  !  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  have  not  forgotten 
the  serious  scenes  amid  which  we  once  walked  together. 
I  am  glad  if  the  recollection  encourages  you  or  makes  you 
grateful.  I  trust  that  the  same  grace  which  met  you  so 
early  in  life,  and  consecrated  the  bloom  of  your  youth  and 
beauty  to  God,  will  attend  you  to  the  end,  and  make  you 
as  lovely  in  the  last  stage  of  3'our  pilgrimage  as  we  used 
to  think  you  in  the  first.  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  ycu  and 
to  your  husband  for  your  kind  opinion  of  my  Sketches. 
You  will  not  be  sorry  to  know  that  I  am  receiving  daily 
more  and  more  evidences  of  its  utility. 

Farewell,  my  dear  girl.  Live  near  to  Christ ;  you  shall 
soon  be  near  to  him  in  all  the  bliss  and  splendors  of  im- 
mortality.    God  grant  it  to  you,  is  the  fond  prayer  of 

Your  affectionate  friend  and  pastor, 

I.  S.  Spenx'er. 

Two  years  after,  she  passed  through  a  deep  ex- 
perience in  the  long,  terrible  illness  of  her  husband. 
For  many  weeks  he  was  so  prostrated  that  the 
slightest  sound  \vas  torture  to  him.  It  was  necessary 
to  send  all  the  younger  children  from  the  house, 
while  she  wrestled  with  death  for  him.  The  burden 
of  fear  and  anxiety  was  an  awful  one.  The  physi- 
cians attributed  his  recovery  almost  wholly  to  her 
superhuman    efforts    and    persistent    nursing,   never 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day.       107 


leaving  him  night  or  day  to  any  other  hand,  and 
never  relaxing  her  labor,  even  when  his  life  was 
wholly  despaired  of.  But  the  mental  conflict  was 
most  severe.  When  he  slept  she  drew  near  to  God, 
and,  after  throes  of  anguish,  of  which  she  afterward 
spoke,  but  could  not  describe,  she  was  at  last  able  to 
leave  all  to  her  Father  in  heaven,  in  submissive  con- 
fidence. She  rested  in  Him.  After  these  profound 
conflicts  the  cloud  passed  over,  and  the  family  were 
united  again,  unbroken. 

The  children  were  now  coming  to  an  age  when 
their  education  became  a  perplexing  question.  The 
village  where  the  Seminary  had  been  established  had 
been  gradually  stranded  by  the  advances  and  changes 
of  the  times.  The  stage-coach  that  ran  twice  a  day 
in  1834,  and  made  the  Hill  sufficiently  accessible, 
in  1850  seemed  lumbering  and  antiquated.  The 
new  railroads  just  missed  the  town ;  schools  grew 
poorer  rather  than  better.  The  devices  of  govern- 
esses and  home  education,  by  which  the  parents  had 
so  far  contrived  to  shield  the  children  from  the  de- 
fective public  schools,  were  growing  insufficient. 
The  way  to  long  training  in  distant  academies  was 
not  clear.  Just  then  the  Trustees  of  the  Seminary 
decided  on  establishing  a  classical  academy  in  the 
place,  thinking  it  would  somehow  prove  a  valuable 
auxiliary  to  the  institution.     For  the  ten  years  that 


io8       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

it  survived,  the  school  was  of  a  high  order.  The 
course  was  thorough,  and  the  teachers  persons  who 
have  won  distinction  in  different  departments  since. 
President  Chadbourne,  now  of  Wilhams  College, 
opened  it,  and  was  for  some  time  its  principal. 

One  of  the  great  anxieties  was  relieved,  and  the 
father  and  mother  took  up  their  burdens  with  lighter 
hearts,  and  the  glad  thankfulness  with  which  it  had 
always  been  their  habit  to  receive  each  event  as 
coming  directly  from  God's  hand.  The  opening  of 
the  school  brought  a  new  care,  as  well  as  a  new  re- 
lief; the  children  of  friends  came  to  be  in  her  family, 
while  they  were  fitting  for  college,  which  meant  that 
she  was  a  mother  to  them  all.  Her  warm  sympathy 
and  bright,  cheerful  spirit  drew  them  to  confide  in  her. 
Her  laugh  was  so  merry,  they  could  not  think  she 
had  forgotten  what  it  was  to  be  young;  and  her  over- 
flowing kindness,  and  sweet,  tender  pity,  when  they 
were  sick  or  tired,  or  "  needed  brooding,"  as  she  used 
to  say,  drew  them  all  to  rest  in  her.  There  was  no 
one  of  them  all  whom  she  did  not  try  to  win  to  a 
Christian  manhood,  as  it  was  impossible  for  her  not 
to  try  to  do  for  every  one  she  knew. 

In  1865  a  nephew  wrote  her:  "I  wish  to  learn 
more  particularly  of  your  dear  household.  It  was 
a  real  home  to  me.  It  was  more,  my  spiritual  birth- 
place, and   I   shall   never   cease  to   recall  with  deep 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day,       109 

emotion  the  scenes  of  '55.  It  would  be  delightful 
if  we  could  turn  the  hands  on  the  dial  back,  not  to 
make  it  traverse  these  ten  years  again,  but  to  enjoy 
for  a  day  the  reviving  of  some  precious  hours  gone. 
I  do  not  fancy  you  much  changed,  but  that  sorrow 
has  done  for  you  what  it  has  done  for  us  all.  What 
a  family  of  boys,  besides  your  own,  look  back  on  your 
motherly  care  and  affection, —  the  Cs.,  M.,  N.,  —  you 
must  feel  so  old  when  you  think  how  many  you  have 
helped  to  train.  Sometimes  when  I  have  been  sitting 
a  long  while  talking  with  chum,  that  is  to  say,  look- 
ing into  the  open  fire,  I  wish  that  I  might  exchange 
No.  21  for  your  sitting-room,  and  my  dreamy  com- 
panion for  your  own  self.  Do  you  ever  sit  up  late 
nights  now,  to  talk  with  naughty,  but  well-meaning 
boys? 

*'  Believe  that  I  am  more  than  ever  a  son  of  your 
heart,  which,  though  it  sound  sentimental  to  others, 
is  real  to  me." 

In  1879  the  same  nephew  from  Dresden  wrote  of 
her :  ''  So  blessed  has  been  the  life  of  her  who  has 
gone,  so  full  of  helpful  sympathy,  prayer,  and  work, 
that  I  find  myself  saying  constantly,  '  Heaven  is  the 
place  for  such  as  she.'  I  always  felt  warmly  attached 
to  Aunt  Eliza,  as  all  who  came  near  her  as  I  did, 
have ;  but  she  was  so  especially  associated  with  the 
feeble  beginnings  of  Christian  hope,  that  this  feeling 


I  lo       The  Heat  and  Burde7i  of  the  Day, 

became  more  tender  and  sacred  than  it  otherwise 
could  have  done.  Her  earnest  love  beamed  through 
her  wise  counsel,  illuminating  it  and  making  me  in 
love  with  the  truth  which  I  had  disliked  and  shunned. 
How  well  I  remember  her  gentle  pleading  and  chari- 
table allowance  for  my  weaknesses  !  The  blessing  she 
was  to  me  in  helping  me  to  a  surrender  of  the  affec- 
tions, and  guarding  me  against  the  error  of  mere 
intellectual  acceptance  of  the  gospel,  was  the  out- 
come of  what  she  w^as,  a  loving  Christian  woman." 
Another  nephew,  touching  on  this  same  relation, 
writes :  ''  Her  loving  heart  and  kindly  deeds  made 
her  lovable,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  there  was  besides 
some  rarer  gift  which  must  have  affected  many  besides 
myself.  Her  strength  of  character  was  of  the  kind 
which  draws  and  not  repels,  and  which  makes  those 
stronger  who  are  reached  by  it.  There  was  nothing 
which  settled  my  feelings  more,  after  hearing  the 
conversation  and  arguments  of  an  unbeliever,  than  a 
sight  of  Aunt  Eliza's  face  and  hearing  her  speak  of 
the  best  things.  There  is  no  argument  for  the  truth 
of  Christianity  like  such  a  life." 

A  little  essay  written  by  her  for  a  circle  of  ladies 
w^ho  met  every  fortnight  for  charitable  work,  and  com- 
bined some  literary  exercises  with  it,  is  interesting, 
because  so  unconsciously  reflecting  herself. 


The  Heat  and  Btu^dcn  of  the  Day.       1 1 1 


WOMANLY    CHARACTER. 

In  drawing  a  character  as  perfect  as  human  nature 
will  allow,  two  things  are  necessary :  consistency  with 
itself,  and  adaptation  to  the  circumstances  in  which  it  is 
placed.  The  personal  attractions  of  a  female  are,  in 
themselves  considered,  of  little  consequence ;  they  win 
the  admiration  of  the  beholder,  but,  if  not  connected  with 
intelligence  and  amiability,  they  soon  pall  upon  the  taste 
and  lose  their  power  to  charm. 

In  order  to  form  a  consistent  character,  we  must  begin 
with  that  purifying,  life-giving  principle  which  alone  is  the 
foundation  of  all  true  excellence,  namely,  pure  religion. 
There  may  be,  and  often  is,  intellectual  greatness  without 
this,  but,  where  the  cultivation  of  the  heart  is  neglected, 
the  character  must  be  incomplete.  The  human  heart  is 
naturally  devoted  to  its  own  interests,  and  if  there  is  no 
counteracting  principle  the  character  will  become  selfish  ; 
and  there  is  no  principle  sufficiently  powerful  to  stem  the 
current  of  the  soul  but  religion,  which  manifests  itself  in 
humility,  self-denial,  and  love  to  the  whole  human  family. 
The  individual  we  are  attempting  to  describe  would  con- 
stantly watch  over  her  own  heart,  would  suppress  every 
unkind  and  selfish  feeling,  would  often  compare  herself 
with  the  perfect  standard  of  duty,  and,  while  conscious  of 
her  own  imperfections,  she  would  bear  with  patience  the 
frailties  of  those  around  her,  or,  in  the  words  of  inspira- 
tion, she  would  possess  the  "  charity  which  seeketh  not  her 
own,  thinketh  no  evil,  hopeth  all  things,  believeth  all 
things,  rejoiceth  m  the  truth."  In  one  word,  she  does  to 
others  as  she  would  have  others  do  to  her.  But  if  she 
thus  assiduously  cultivates  her  heart,  she  does  not  neglect 
her  understanding;   she  considers  it  a  talent  committed 


112       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day. 

to  her,  for  which  she  must  give  account,  —  consequently 
she  improves  her  mind,  not  that  she  may  obtain  a  reputa- 
tion, but  that  she  may  better  discharge  the  duties  of  her 
station.     True  female  delicacy  shrinks  from  notoriety. 

While  she  is  thus  rendering  herself  an  ornament  to  her 
sex  and  a  blessing  to  society,  she  claims  no  praise  for 
herself,  but  ascribes  it  to  that  spirit  imparted  to  her  by 
Him  who  became  poor  that  she  might  be  rich,  and  laid 
down  his  life  that  she  might  never  die. 

Her  affections  are  not  supremely  attached  to  the  objects 
of  this  world,  but  she  looks  beyond  the  grave  to  those 
joys  which  eye  hath  not  seen  nor  the  heart  of  man  con- 
ceived. While  she  is  happy  in  the  performance  of  duty 
here,  she  looks  forward  with  delight  to  the  time  when  she 
shall  refresh  her  soul  from  the  river  of  life,  in  the  presence 
of  her  Redeemer.  A  character  like  this  is  adapted  to  a 
world  of  disappointment  and  sorrow.  Her  treasure  on 
high  and  her  heart  there  also,  she  enjoys  prosperity  with 
moderation,  and  in  affliction  she  is  strengthened  by  know- 
ing that  all  things  work  together  for  her  good.  She  seeks 
instruction  from  every  dispensation  of  Providence,  and 
thus  her  soul  gains  purity  and  is  preparing  for  the  society 
of  the  blest  spirits  in  another  world. 

May  this  character  be  ours  ! 

By  her  strong  grasp  of  certain  principles  of  living 
and  her  sincerity  in  acting  upon  them,  she  solved 
practically  more  than  one  problem  on  which  volumes 
have  been  written  to  no  great  purpose. 

The  problem  of  domestic  service  was  perplexing 
to  her  as  to  all  American  housekeepers,  but  she  met 
it  with   patience    and   courage.     From   the   first   she 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day.       1 13 

treated  her  domestics  with  consideration  and  kind- 
ness. In  the  very  early  years  of  her  housekeeping 
the  question  ''What  shall  we  do  with  our  kitchens?" 
presented  itself  in  a  rather  startling  way.  The  in- 
cumbent was  a  young  woman  who  had  never  seemed 
very  strong,  but  showed  nothing  unusual  in  any  way, 
until  one  morning  the  mistress  appeared  at  the  usual 
time,  to  find  the  fire  unmade  and  no  signs  of  Amanda. 
She  hastily  called  her,  while  she  herself  prepared 
breakfast,  expecting  the  girl's  step  on  the  stair  every 
moment.  At  last  she  went  to  her  room  and  found 
her  still  asleep.  No  effort  to  arouse  her  had  any 
effect,  the  stupor  was  so  absolute.  She  went  down 
to  care  for  the  family,  puzzled,  but  supposing  she 
would  wake  of  herself  soon.  The  girl  did  not  appear 
until  nearly  noon,  mortified  and  unable  to  explain  the 
cause  of  the  prolonged  sleep.  After  that  she  would 
frequently  fall  into  the  same  state  in  the  daytime,  and 
while  in  it  could  do  what  was  impossible  when  in  her 
ordinary  condition.  Her  eyes  would  remain  tightly 
closed,  and  while  so  she  could  read  fluently,  when  at 
other  times  she  blundered  and  stumbled  and  could 
scarcely  get  through  a  simple  verse. 

Other  persons  became  interested  in  the  case,  and 
on  one  occasion  Dr.  Tyler  came  in,  and  himself  tied  his 
large  red-silk  handkerchief,  thickly  folded,  over  her 
eyes,  while  they  were  tightly  closed ;  then,  holding  a 

8 


114       ^'^^  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day. 

Bible  before  her  upside  down,  opened  to  an  unfa- 
miliar passage  in  the  Old  Testament  and  asked  her 
to  read,  which  she  did  correctly,  and  equally  well 
when  it  was  held  behind  her. 

It  was  more  interesting  scientifically  than  practi- 
cally ;  but  the  mistress  pitied  the  maid,  connected  as 
the  phenomenon  was  with  failing  health,  and  bore 
with  the  inconvenience  for  months,  until  at  last  rela- 
tives were  found  to  care  for  her.  Whoever  she 
employed  soon  felt  her  to  be  a  friend.  She  inquired 
into  the  condition  of  their  clothing,  and,  usually  find- 
ing them  poorly  provided  for,  helped  them  plan, 
often  cutting  out  garments  with  her  own  hands,  over- 
whelmed with  cares  as  she  was,  not  resting  till  they 
were  comfortable. 

One  Bridget,  celebrated  in  the  family  annals  for 
uncommon  impertinence  and  unskilfulness,  was  the 
trial  of  her  soul  for  eleven  years.  Having  decided 
that  she  was  as  competent  as  any  one  that  could 
be  obtained,  she  concluded  to  bear  what  could  not  be 
cured ;  endured  her  unreasonableness,  advised  and 
taught  her  as  far  as  possible,  insisting  on  her  laying 
by  part  of  her  wages  every  month,  and  then,  when 
her  uncommon  wealth  began  to  attract  lovers  whom 
her  personal  charms  would  hardly  have  won,  my 
mother  spent  many  an  hour  in  counteracting  the 
wooing  of  young  men  who  drank   and  would   have 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day.       1 1 5 

made  poor  Bridget  miserable.  We  used  to  think  it 
a  rather  wasted  effort  then,  not  seeing  how  ideally 
beautiful  and  right  it  all  was,  and  how  she  had  struck 
the  key  in  which  it  is  now  found  all  real  labor-reform 
must  be  set,  before  employers  and  employed  can  be 
harmonious.  By  self-sacrifice  and  kindness  she  saved 
the  ignorant  creature  as  far  as  lay  in  her  power,  and 
was  really  in  the  end  better  served  than  those  who  take 
fire  at  each  provocation  and  think  of  the  employed 
only  as  troublesome  parts  of  the  machinery. 

Her  spirit  of  helpfulness  was  well  illustrated  by  her 
course  in  regard  to  singing.  She  was  thirty  eight 
or  nine  years  old,  and  had  never  been  trained  in 
music,  when  a  movement  was  made  to  organize  a 
chorus  choir  for  the  Seminary  chapel.  It  was  urged 
that  every  one  who  ever  sang  at  all  should  unite,  and 
help  as  far  as  possible.  That,  she  thought,  included 
her,  and,  knowing  very  well  how  small  a  musical 
talent  she  had,  she  attended  the  training-school  regu- 
larly, joined  the  choir,  and  sang  so  evidently  with  the 
spirit  that  no  one  could  suspect  her  of  an  exaggerated 
idea  of  her  own  gifts. 

New  tests  of  character  and  strains  on  faith  and 
feeling  were  constantly  coming  in  these  busy  years. 
The  boys  and  girls,  who  were  babies  only  the  other 
day,  were  grown  and  ready  for  college  and  boarding- 
school.     Any  change  that  took  one  of  her  children 


1 1 6       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

from  her  immediate  care  was  to  her  a  great  one.  It 
was  with  prayers  and  tears  she  parted  from  her 
sons  one  after  the  other.  "  I  shall  never  forget,"  she 
wrote  once  to  the  oldest,  "how  I  felt  when  you  first 
put  on  boy's  clothes.  It  was  the  beginning  of  your 
growing  up."  This  was  another  step.  But  with 
what  letters  she  followed  them,  what  boxes  at  Thanks- 
giving, if  they  could  not  come  home,  what  welcomes 
for  vacations  ! 

It  would  be  as  easy  to  analyze  the  flowers  in 
one's  wedding  bouquet  as  to  tell  precisely  what  she 
did  and  said  that  made  her  such  a  mother.  In  her 
excellent  judgment  there  was  a  sense  of  strength  and 
wisdom  to  guide,  and  her  deep,  warm  love  was  an  un- 
failing refuge.  One  says  "  Mother,"  and  stops  as  we 
say  "  God,"  not  able  to  explain,  but  aware  of  Him 
under  and  around  and  everywhere. 

One  of  the  pleasant  occasions,  after  cares  began  to 
lessen  a  little,  and  there  was  time  for  backward 
glances,  was  the  silver  wedding,  which  was  celebrated 
by  a  family  gathering  in  the  fall  of  1859.  At  that 
time  she  wrote  the  following  letter  to  her  children :  — 

My  beloved  Children,  —  Yesterday  was  the  anni- 
versary of  the  day  when  we  were  planted  among  the 
families  of  the  earth,  and,  as  it  also  completes  the  first 
quarter  of  a  century,  it  seems  desirable  to  record  the  deal- 
ings of  God  with  us  as  a  family. 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day,       117 


One  of  the  first  resolutions  formed  after  my  face  was 
turned  Zionward  was,  never  to  allow  myself  to  become 
interested  in  any  one  not  a  Christian,  or  to  whom  I  could 
not  look  up  with  respect.  That,  under  existing  circum- 
stances, -.was  nearly  equivalent  to  a  resolution  to  live  a 
single  life.  When  our  union  was  formed,  the  prospect  as 
regarded  worldly  matters,  was  one  of  privation  and  self- 
denial  ;  a  friend,  on  hearing  the  amount  of  salary  expected, 
said  to  me,  "  That  would  not  buy  my  pins."  "  I  know  it," 
I  replied;  "but  it  will  probably  support  me."  We  took 
this  word  for  our  heritage,  "Trust  in  the  Lord  and  do 
good;  so  shalt  thou  dwell  in  the  land,  and  verily  thou 
shalt  be  fed."  God  has  made  good  his  promise.  As  a 
family,  we  have  never  wanted  any  good  thing.  We  have 
always  had  enough  for  ourselves  and  a  morsel  for  those 
that  were  needy.  In  that  dark  hour  when  death  seemed 
standing  just  outside  the  door,  and  I  was  forced  to  look 
widowhood,  orphanage,  and  poverty  in  the  face,  this  cov- 
enant promise  of  a  covenant-keeping  God  was  a  strong 
tower  ;  by  grace  I  ran  into  it,  and  was  safe.  It  did  not 
include  the  luxuries  of  life,  —  things,  in  our  view,  incon- 
sistent with  the  self-denying  spirit  of  pilgrims  and  stran- 
gers,—  and  therefore  we  adopted  as  plain  and  simple  a 
style  of  living  as  w-as  consistent  w^th  health  and  respecta- 
bility. You  can  testify  that  I  have  not  spared  myself 
when  personal  effort  was  needed.  Amid  all  the  trials  and 
vicissitudes  of  family  life,  never,  for  o?ie  7nome?7f,  have  I 
regretted  the  step  taken,  neither  have  I  found  uncalled 
for  the  sober  views  with  which  we  took  it.  With  me  it 
was  second  only  to  consecration  to  the  service  of  Christ. 
God  only  knows  the  number  and  the  strength  of  the  trials 
and  temptations  which  awaited  us,  but  out  of  them  all  he 
hath  delivered  jus,  and  made  us  thankfully  acknowledge 
that  they  were  the  needed  discipline. 


1 1 8       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

Time  has  not  weakened  our  mutual  attachment :  it  is 
stronger  and  more  perfect  to-day  than  at  any  former 
period. 

We  received  you  as  precious  gifts  from  our  Heavenly 
Father,  intrusted  to  our  care,  —  not  wholly  ours,  but  to  be 
trained  for  his  service  and  subject  to  his  call.  We  felt 
his  command  imperative  to  bring  you  up  in  his  fear  and 
teach  you  his  precepts.  You  are  consecrated  to  his 
service  ;  the  world  has  no  claim  upon  you.  You  under- 
stand in  what  sense  I  use  that  term  "the  world."  In 
another  sense  it  has  the  strongest  claim.  It  demands 
that  your  influence  shall  be  like  salt  thrown  into  the 
turbid  waters,  purifying  and  sanctifying.  It  has  been  my 
desire  to  train  you  to  feel  that  there  is  no  object  worth 
living  for  but  the  glory  of  God  and  the  good  of  others. 

This  has  not  presented  itself  to  me  in  the  light  of  a  self- 
denying  dut}^,  but  as  a  high  privilege ;  and  if  Christ  should 
condescend  to  use  you  in  his  service  I  would  say :  "  It  is 
enough  ;  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace." 

From  this  standpoint  I  look  back  upon  so  many  mis- 
takes of  judgment,  so  many  imperfections  and  short- 
comings, such  weakness  of  faith,  such  risings  of  rebellion, 
such  ebullitions  of  selfishness  and  pride  in  my  heart  and 
life,  that  I  am  constrained  to  say,  if  there  is  any  good 
thing  in  any  of  us,  it  is  all  of  sovereign  grace.  God  has 
taught  us  that  the  power  to  control  human  spirits  is  pecu- 
liarly his  own.  Often  when  my  purposes  in  this  respect 
were  crossed,  and  I  have  been  driven  in  despair  to  seek 
the  aid  of  Almighty  power,  he  has  appeared  for  my  help 
and  wrought  deliverance.  Let  us  recall  the  mercy  of  the 
Lord  in  healing  our  sicknesses,  in  preserving  our  going 
out  and  our  coming  in,  and  that  there  is  no  dishonored 
name  in  our  household. 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day,        1 1 9 

Take  courage  for  the  future,  review  your  principles  and 
motives,  and  renew  your  consecration  to  Christ.  Let  no 
inducement  of  present  comfort  or  worldly  gain  turn  you 
aside  from  the  position  of  greatest  usefulness. 

Watch  jealously  the  golden  chain  of  fraternal  love. 
Cheerfully  make  any  personal  sacrifice  rather  than  suffer 
it  to  be  tarnished.  I  have  no  fear  that  your  filial  love  will 
fail.  The  history  of  the  next  twenty-five  years  is  in  the 
mind  of  our  glorious  Head.  Let  us  commit  ourselves  to 
Him,  in  the  sure  and  certain  hope  that  all  will  be  well. 

Your  loving  Mother. 

These  words  of  trust  had  not  been  many  years 
written  when  the  storm  of  war  burst  over  the  coun- 
try, convulsing,  shattering,  sweeping  away  so  much. 
Like  all  true  women  of  that  time,  my  mother  threw 
her  intense  feeling  into  the  form  of  active  service,  —  a 
leader  in  her  own  circle  in  the  movement  for  sending 
hospital  supplies  and  comforts  to  the  soldiers  on  the 
field.  She  would  turn,  witli  the  tears  still  wet  on  her 
cheeks  from  reading  the  accounts  of  battles,  to  cut 
out  havelocks  and  se\v  bandages.  But  it  was  to 
come  nearer.  In  August,  1862,  her  youngest  son, 
Samuel,  enlisted.  He  had  finished  his  studies  at 
Phillips  Academy  in  July,  and  was  about  to  enter 
Yale.  He  was  only  nineteen,  just  in  the  beauty  of 
his  youth  and  the  opening  of  a  manhood  that  prom- 
ised all  which  a  mother's  heart  dreams. 

It  was  such  a  knightly  act  as  his  whole  training  and 


1 20       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

her  own  spirit  had  helped  prepare  him  for.  When 
the  grave  words,  "  I  think  I  ought  to  go,"  fell  from 
his  lips,  that  had  grown  ten  years  older  that  summer, 
she  could  not  oppose  him,  but  the  quietness  came 
that  always  fell  on  her  when  the  depths  were  stirred. 
She  worked  and  smiled,  but  said  little.  "  To  suffer 
and  be  strong "  was  the  part  of  women  in  those 
terrible  days. 

Her  face  grew  white  as  the  time  came  nearer  when 
he  must  go,  but  she  mostly  hid  her  tears,  turning  her 
sweet  face,  a  centre  of  calm,  on  the  surging  sea  of 
family  excitement  around  her.  In  her  heart  hope 
was  strong  that  he  might  come  back,  not  knowing 
that  his  clear  eyes  saw  through  to  the  end.  **  I  knew 
how  it  would  be  when  I  enlisted,"  he  told  her  when 
he  lay  dying. 

It  was  soon  all  over.  A  few  weeks'  marching  and 
bivouacking,  hunger  and  thirst  and  the  scorching 
southern  sun,  did  their  work  on  his  frame,  nobly 
moulded,  but  too  finely  organized  to  bear  such  strains. 
There  was  the  one  awful  day  of  Antietam,  one  flash- 
ing out  of  the  pent-up  passion  and  fire  of  which  he- 
roes are  made,  —  a  story  to  tell  to  children's  children, 
of  how  he  sprang  to  his  dead  captain's  place,  shout- 
ing, "■  Form  on  me,  boys,  form  on  me  !  "  leading  his 
men  and  rallying  the  scattered  regiment ;  how,  in  the 
horror  of  the   confused   rout,  he  helped   a  wounded 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  iJie  Day.       121 

comrade  from  the  field,  crossing  and  recrossing  the 
bridge  in  the  full  face  of  the  enemy's  fire,  yet  carry- 
ing still  his  overcoat  cape  on  his  arm,  that  the  women 
who  loved  him  might  be  spared  every  pang  that  he 
could  spare  them ;  how,  when  night  fell,  he  dragged 
himself  fainting  to  the  woods,  able  to  do  no  more 
than  remember  to  draw  that  covering  over  him, 
while  the  darkness  closed  in  and  the  rain  fell,  and 
for  him  the  short,  sharp  battle  of  life  was  done. 

Six  weeks  from  the  day  that  he  marched  down  the 
Hartford  street  with  the  Sixteenth  on  their  way  to 
Virginia,  he  lay  wrapped  in  the  fiag,  under  his  laurel 
crown,  with  the  white  lily  on  his  breast,  in  the  home 
whose  light  and  pride  he  had  been. 

Almost  his  last  words  were  to  his  mother,  as  she 
bent  over  him,  trying  to  soothe  his  mortal  weariness. 
"Kiss  me,  mother:  I  am  going  before  long."  "I 
shall  follow  you  soon,  my  son,"  said  she,  as  if  from  a 
heart  breaking  with  an  anguish  it  could  not  bear. 

That  was  the  going  down  of  the  sun  (to  more 
than  one  life),  the  beginning  of  ever-lengthening 
shadows.  The  mother  bore  the  great  shock  bravely, 
but,  always  after,  her  heart  was  divided.  While  she 
clung  no  less  to  those  who  stayed,  she  was  always 
longing  to  go  to  him  who  would  not  return  to  her. 

"  I  was  surprised,"  said  a  friend  who  spoke  to  her  of 
him  sixteen  years  after  he  went,  "  to  see  the  tears  spring 


12  2       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day. 

to  her  eyes,  so  that  she  could  hardly  speak.  Her 
ordinary  cheerful  manner  had  not  prepared  me  for 
this."  The  fruits  of  her  sorrow  were  '*  peaceable," 
but  the  absent  was  unforgotten. 

Not  long  after  Samuel's  death,  her  oldest  son, 
Charles,  went  abroad  to  study  the  German  methods 
in  schools  of  technology,  preparatory  to  assuming 
the  charge  of  the  one  about  to  be  established  in 
Worcester,  Mass.  She  was  thoroughly  interested  in 
his  object,  but  her  wound  w^as  still  too  fresh  for  her 
to  think,  without  the  most  tremulous  yearning,  of  the 
risks  of  travel  and  distance.  It  was  one  more  added 
to  those  experiences  of  watching,  waiting,  and  prayer 
without  ceasing,  that  make  up  the  mother's  hfe. 

One  by  one,  the  children  married.  She  received 
each  new  son  and  daughter,  as  they  came  into  the 
family,  with  a  warm  affection  that  never  ceased  to 
bless  them  with  the  belief  that  they  were  really  taken 
into  her  heart  and  held  as  her  own. 

In  the  fall  of  1869  the  wedding  of  the  youngest 
daughter  gathered  friends  and  kin  together  for  the 
last  time  under  the  roof  of  the  Windsor  home.  It 
was  not  without  significance  that  when  the  rooms 
were  dressed  that  last  time  with  wreaths  and  branches 
for  the  festival,  it  was  under  an  arch  of  bittersweet 
that  all  passed  outward.  There  had  been  laughter 
and  tears,  fear  and  hope,  in  the  home  which  the  two 


The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day,       123 

who  loved  God  and  each  other  had  begun  thirty 
years  before.  The  young  girl  who  had  come  with 
that  serious  sweetness  in  her  eyes,  confiding  and  cour- 
ageous,  had  ripened,  through  sunshine  and  shower, 
into  the  matron  whose  presence  there  and  every- 
where was  a  benediction.  She  had  been  strong  as 
a  wife  to  share  a  difficult  lot,  and  to  the  children  so 
wise  and  tender  and  true  that  the  halo  which  crowns 
unselfish  lives  was  visibly  surrounding  her.  There 
was  no  unmingled  bitterness  in  the  pathos  of  the  last 
song,  the  wedding-song  that  closed  the  drama  lived 
out  in  that  house.  Its  varying  harmonies  had  con- 
stantly returned  to  the  chord  of  faith  on  which  they 
were  built  up.  She  had  so  steadily  looked  at  the 
things  which  are  unseen,  she  could  not  be  shaken 
beyond  recovery  by  any  change  that  touched  only 
the  external. 

The  Seminary  had  been  removed  three  years  be- 
fore to  Hartford,  and  now  there  seemed  no  reason  for 
any  longer  retaining  the  house  at  Windsor,  even  for  a 
summer  home.  Only  women  tenacious  of  local  asso- 
ciations, who  know  what  it  is  to  weave  their  very 
heart-life  into  the  homes  in  which  they  come  as 
brides,  where  their  children  have  been  born  and 
reared,  where  they  have  watched  over  their  sick  and 
buried  their  dead,  can  understand  what  it  cost  her,  at 
her  age,  to  break   those  ties.     She    shrank  from    it, 


124       The  Heat  and  Burden  of  the  Day, 

and  for  a  while  opposed  it,  but,  convinced  that  it  was 
best,  she  conquered  herself  once  more,  and  with  a 
composure  marvellous  to  those  who  knew  what  she 
felt,  she  yielded  and  prepared  for  the  breaking  up. 

In  two  weeks  from  the  wedding-day  the  house  was 
empty.  Many  of  the  bulbs  and  flowers  she  had 
loved  so  much  she  scattered  among  her  friends  and 
children,  and  the  sweetest  lilies  and  roses  in  gardens 
widely  separated  to-day  are  reminders  of  her. 

*'  There  's  rosemary,  that 's  for  remembrance ;  pray 
you,  love,  remember;  and  there  is  pansies,  that's  for 
thoughts." 


CHAPTER    IV. 
THE   EVENING  TIME. 


IV. 

THE   EVENING   TIME. 

"  What  still  is  left  of  strength  employ 
This  end  to  help  attain, 
One  common  wave  of  thought  and  Joy 
Li/ting  mankind  again^ 

^^  Blessed  is  that  servant  whom    his  Lord 
when  he  comet h  shall  find  so  doing.^'* 

^  I  ^HERE  is  no  closer  test  of  character  than  what 
-*-  one  chooses  to  do  when  he  is  free  to  choose. 
Many  women  coming  out  of  a  somewhat  aimless 
girlhood  into  matronly  cares  drift  into  a  generally 
right  course.  The  very  stress  of  circumstance  forces 
them  into  a  kind  of  faithfulness  to  duty.  Natural 
instinct  and  ordinary  conscience  dictate  a  degree  of 
devotion  to  those  most  nearly  dependent  on  them 
for  happiness.  When  the  children  are  grown  and 
the  pressure  lifted,  a  certain  propriety  in  caps,  and  a 
judicious  vibration  between  knitting,  crocheting,  and 
the  Kensington  stitch  in  buttercups,  are  felt  to  be  all 
the  world  has  a  right  to  demand  of  them.     Occasional 


128  The  Evening  Time, 

mild  concessions  to  the  urgencies  of  charitable 
collectors,  or  the  rare  sending  around  of  the  carriage 
to  take  church  invalids  to  ride,  leaves  in  their 
minds  a  savor  of  unusual  rectitude,  as  of  voluntary 
service  on  the  part  of  discharged  soldiers. 

With  Mrs.  Thompson,  life  at  twenty  had  individual 
purpose  and  genuine  consecration.  The  lesson  of 
the  last  fourteen  years  is  only  that  she 

"  Obeyed  the  voice  at  eve 
She  had  obeyed  at  prime." 

The  era  of  household  care  was  past.  In  the  hotel 
and  boarding-house  her  time  was  her  own,  but  as  a 
neighbor  remarked,  "  There  was  not  a  busier  woman 
in  Hartford  than  Mrs.  Thompson." 

It  had  never  been  her  way  to  endure  life,  but  to 
conquer  it  by  her  faith  in  special  Providence,  and 
her  whole-souled  choice  to  serve  rather  than  be 
served.     It  was  so,  still. 

The  round  of  action  in  the  restricted  circle  of 
home,  exacting  and  intense  as  it  had  been,  had  not 
narrowed  her  sympathies.  In  her  busiest  days  she 
had  still  thought;  she  had  observed  and  reflected. 
In  her  love  for  her  own  she  had  not  absorbed  all 
her  capacity  for  loving.  As  the  history  of  families 
and  individuals  had  passed  before  her,  it  had  been 
more  than  food  for  passing  remark.  She  had  traced 
results  back  to  causes,  effects  to  governing  principles ; 


The  Evening  Tmie,  129 

so  that  it  was  not  only  with  ripened  experience, 
but  intelligent  moral  convictions  and  unwithered 
ardor,  that  she  came  to  "  Life's  late  afternoon." 

She  was  scarcely  established  in  Hartford  before 
she  was  known  as  one  whose  advice  as  well  as  labor 
was  of  value  in  the  different  departments  of  church 
work.  It  was  not  that  ease  had  no  charm  for  her, 
but  usefulness  had  more.  She  rose  above  the  lesser 
into  the  greater  good. 

By  some  mysterious  magnetism  the  poor  and  she 
came  into  communication.  Rickety  attic-stairs  which 
she  could  justly  have  excused  herself  from  climbing 
on  account  of  her  increasing  stoutness  and  the  weak- 
ness of  her  ankles,  knew  her  step  well. 

She  abhorred  waste,  and  in  the  breaking  up  of 
the  old  home  she  had  saved  material  which  could 
be  made  into  useful  garments,  but  which,  given  away 
as  it  was,  would  be  of  little  value,  it  not  being 
probable  that  poor  v.'omen  would  have  either  time 
or  skill  to  expend  in  that  way.  There  was  the  very 
soul  of  Christianity  in  the  way  those  buttonholes 
on  the  little  children's  quilts  were  worked,  when  they 
had  been  warmly  wadded,  the  mist  gathering  in  her 
kind  eyes  while  she  said  to  herself,  there  would  be 
at  least  two  or  three  little  girls  who  would  not  be 
very  cold  that  winter.  There  was  a  thoroughness 
in  her  way  of  doing  good  that  marked  it  as  springing 

9 


1 30  The  Evening  Time. 

from  a  source  quite  different  from  that  which  prompts 
the  careless  turning  over  of  superfluities  to  the  poor, 
with  a  vague  behef  that  even  that  ought  to  be  set 
down  as  very  much  to  one's  credit.  With  the  great 
ocean  of  suffering  and  want  around  us,  she  felt  that 
the  least  a  Christian  woman  could  do  was  to  give 
not  only  things  but  herself  Doing  the  most  possible, 
she  felt  to  be  only  following  afar  off  in  the  steps  of 
our  Master.  Into  the  organization  of  the  Woman's 
Christian  Association  she  threw  herself  heartily. 
One  of  their  first  efforts  was  the  building  of  the 
Church  Street  Home  for  Working-Girls.  She  worked 
untiringly  as  a  manager,  and  in  the  superintendence 
of  the  means  for  religious  culture,  thoroughly  be- 
lieving that  the  deepest  sources  of  happiness  lie  in 
faith  and  the  acquaintance  of  the  soul  with  Jesus 
Christ,  and  that  only  half  the  work  of  kindness  is 
done  when  physical  wants  are  met.  She  knew  too 
well  what  a  woman's  life  is,  to  suppose  it  can  be  fed 
by  bread  alone. 

She  was  zealous  in  making  pretty  articles  for  the 
fairs  held  to  free  the  Home  from  debt.  When  she 
was  taking  her  summ.er  rest  by  the  sea-shore  or 
among  the  mountains,  a  bit  of  embroidery  designed 
for  the  winter  sale  would  be  in  progress  at  odd 
moments,  or  arrangements  of  shells  and  mosses  for 
the  same  purpose.     When  her  eyes  were  too  tired 


The  Evening  Time,  131 

for  either,  there  was  knitting ;  for  there  would  surely 
be  a  demand  at  the  sale-tables  for  her  children's 
mittens.  Meanwhile  nothing  beautiful  on  sea  or 
shore  escaped  her  eye,  and  nothing  rare  or  inter- 
esting as  a  specimen.  A  lace  cap  she  held  as 
a  necessary  inconvenience ;  a  bit  of  sea-corn  was  a 
treasure.  Her  love  of  shells  amounted  to  a  passion, 
if  any  thing  amounted  to  that  in  her  well-balanced, 
even  nature.  She  delighted  in  collecting  them  and 
in  every  thing  concerning  their  history,  imparting 
her  own  enthusiasm  to  her  grandchildren,  who  were 
never  tired  of  seeing  her  press  the  mosses,  and  of 
helping  her  collect  all  the  odd  things  the  sea  tossed 
up.  They  found  the  greatest  pleasure  in  their 
bathing  and  their  swimming-lesson,  if  grandma  were 
in  the  company,  for  no  one  else  was  quite  so  merry, 
or  entered  into  it  all  with  such  a  zest. 

Indeed,  her  relation  to  her  grandchildren  was  so 
beautiful  as  to  quite  give  the  lie  to  the  writers  who 
tell  us  we  must  go  to  French  chateaux  or  English 
homes  to  find  specimens  of  the  real  grandmothers, 
who  used  to  form  so  lovely  a  part  of  the  family 
picture. 

She  took  each  one  into  her  heart  as  they  came 
to  the  different  homes.  She  overflowed  with  anxious 
sympathies  for  every  ailment  of  their  infancy,  shaping 
the  little  socks  for  their  feet  with  the  same  care  and 


132  The  Evening  Time, 


interest  with  which  she  wrote  quarterly  reports  or 
prepared  addresses  for  benevolent  societies.  She 
lingered  over  the  bits  of  white  and  blue  with  the 
fond  smile  of  her  own  young  motherhood,  and 
recalled  the  old  skill  in  embroidery  when  she  was 
past  sixty,  that  what  she  had  wrought  might  be 
among  the  first  dresses  worn  by  a  grandchild. 

Her  life  must  have  been  a  puzzle  to  the  persons 
who  cannot  conceive  of  woman's  activity  in  organized 
form,  the  conservatism  of  her  immense  reserved  force 
of  sympathy  and  wisdom,  without  some  sad  sacrifice 
of  the  more  primal  and  intimate  ties  that  depend  on 
womanly  tenderness. 

She  had  too  ample  a  nature  and  too  genuine,  ever 
to  dream  that  any  thing  can  be  more  important  than 
what  concerns  the  comfort  and  good  of  children. 
She  felt  a  certain  fine  indignation  toward  the  very 
hint  in  theory  or  practice.  Had  her  instinct  not 
sufficed,  she  was  able,  by  one  or  two  direct  strokes 
of  her  sound  sense,  to  cut  a  knot  that  needed  no 
unravelling.  Her  arguments  on  points  in  regard  to 
which  she  was  fully  informed  were  apt  to  be  con- 
clusive. 

The  most  irritable  egotist,  intent  on  asserting  the 
comparative  expanse  of  his  own  nature  by  curtailing 
the  possible  stretch  of  others,  would  have  felt  no 
alarm   as   to    the   traditional    feminine    traits   of  this 


The  Evening  Time.  133 

woman,  if  he  had  seen  her,  the  fair  face  tinged  with 
the  pink  color  that  had  never  forgotten  how  to  come 
and  go,  surrounded  by  her  group  of  grandchildren. 
They  clung  to  her,  confiding  their  little  plans  and 
thoughts,  as  sure  of  her  sympathy  as  of  the  package 
of  stockings  and  mittens  that  came  every  Christmas, 
knit  by  her  own  hand. 

One  of  her  last  visits  she  made  at  Worcester,  the 
home  of  her  oldest  son ;  the  children  first  spied  the 
carriage  that  brought  her,  and  before  the  parents 
knew  what  was  in  progress,  she  had  been  triumphantly 
seized  and  conducted  to  the  playroom  in  the  third 
story,  where  she  was  shortly  after  found,  with  hat 
and  travelling  wraps  still  on,  listening,  all  smiles  and 
attention,  to  the  boys'  eager  explanations  of  their 
minerals  and  shells. 

Under  all,  there  was  her  characteristic  earnestness 
and  deep  conviction  of  what  was  more  than  passing 
joy.  She  studied  the  characteristics  of  each  one, 
trying  to  strengthen  them  where  they  were  weak, 
and  fix  the  awful  must  of  duty  below  the  tides  of 
feeling.  '*  I  want  to  get  a  hold  upon  them,"  she 
used  to  say;  ''  then  what  I  say  will  have  some  in- 
fluence." The  precepts  of  a  grandmother  who  made 
them  shell  necklaces,  cared  about  all  their  games, 
.and  had  such  kisses  for  them  all,  sank  into  their  very 
souls. 


1 34  T^^^  Eventing  Time. 

Whatever  happened  in  the  four  homes  of  her  chil- 
dren,—  at  Worcester,  Reading,  Fitchburg,  or  Middle- 
town,  —  to  write  to  mother  about  it  was  the  first 
impulse.  Whether  it  was  joy  or  sorrow,  they  were  sure 
of  her  sympathy,  and  in  perplexity  her  advice  w^as  felt 
to  be  a  light.  When  nothing  happened  they  knew  that 
simply  to  be  informed  of  the  daily  current  of  their 
lives  was  part  of  her  happiness,  and  when  mother's 
prayers  could  be  enlisted  in  behalf  of  any  individual 
or  object  for  which  they  were  w^orking,  they  knew 
the  strongest  available  force  had  been  brought  into 
play.  Her  visits  were  a  west-wind  of  cheerfulness 
blowing  over  weariness  and  care.  Every  thing  felt 
steadier,  simpler,  and  surer  when  she  was  in  the 
house.  Tangles  began  to  clear  up.  Whether  it 
was  the  fresh  thought  she  brought  down-stairs  from 
her  morning  Bible  reading,  —  a  tonic  for  the  spiritual 
life  of  the  day,  —  or  the  thimble  and  scissors  that  in 
spite  of  all  protests  insisted  on  being  felt  where  they 
were  needed,  or  the  little  package  of  flower-seeds 
for  the  garden,  or  the  receipt  for  pickles  produced 
from  the  portfolio  where  it  was  lying  in  peaceful 
proximity  to  the  memoranda  of  the  Constantinople 
Home,  or  whether  it  was  the  sight  of  the  lovely  face 
asleep  in  the  arm-chair  after  dinner,  —  altogether, 
sunshine  came  with  her.  It  could  not  seem  an 
unmixed  misfortune  to  be  born  into  the  world  where 
she  was. 


The  Evening  Time.  135 

As  always,  the  circle  of  blessing  spread  out  from 
the  single  home,  and  her  children's  friends  came  to 
value  acquaintance  with  the  mother  as  something 
to  be  treasured. 

A  lady  who  knew  her  in  this  way  writes :  "Your 
mother's  sweet  voice  and  manners  drew  me  to  her, 
and  it  was  easy  to  talk  freely  with  her  of  precious 
interests.  I  was  made  better  by  knowing  her.  She 
did  good  in  such  a  simple,  genuine  way,  no  one 
could  know  her  without  being  stimulated  to  a  broader 
life." 

After  the  civil  war  was  ended,  and  the  great 
question  of  African  slavery  settled  in  this  country, 
there  were  prophetic  souls  who  felt  that  the  next 
problem  that  would  occupy  us  and  be  slowly  solved, 
was  that  of  the  training  and  the  sphere  of  women. 
Events  have  proved  that  they  were  right.  The 
vastness  and  the  complications  of  the  problem  have 
become  more  manifest  with  each  new  theory  and 
test,  until  the  wisest  admit  it  to  be  capable  of  solu- 
tion only  by  experiment.  Happily,  in  our  free 
atmosphere  and  in  our  general  system,  itself  an 
experiment,  this  is  possible.  Looking  back  seventeen 
years,  the  least  sanguine  progress  that  inspires  fresh 
patience ;  the  improvement  in  physical  training, 
already  visibly  telling  in  larger  cities ;  the  hundred 
new   avenues    of    industry   for   women    where   there 


1 36  The  Evening  Time. 


was  one  then ;  Vassar  and  Smith  and  Wellesley  where 
then  there  was  only  the  unctuous  speculator  of  the 
boarding-school ;  the  unnumbered  societies  for  self- 
improvement  where  the  best  women  of  communities 
gather  to  study  and  consider  questions  in  social 
science,  as  well  in  Kansas  and  Illinois  as  in  New 
York  and  Massachusetts,  —  all  these  tangible  proofs 
of  advance,  and  others,  in  spite  of  what  is  undone,  it 
seems,  might  stir  the  silent  sleeper  in  the  Haworth 
churchyard  with  a  thrill  of  joy,  or  her  whose  grave 
in  Florence  is  to  many  a  pilgrim  one  of  its  holiest 
shrines.  Truth  and  time  are  strong  enough  to  out- 
wear all  prisons. 

The  new  structure  of  womanly  life  was  to  be  like 
the  universal  Church,  "  fitly  framed  together  by  that 
which  every  joint  supplieth."  Each  need  not  com- 
prehend the  whole.  Each  may  dream  that  his  own 
little  arch  spans  the  building,  but  as  many  as  follow 
where  they  are  led  by  the  Spirit,  must  surely  find 
their  work  at  last  built  into  the  great  cathedral 
existing  in  completeness  now  only  in  the  miind  of 
God. 

To  the  majority  of  refined  and  conservative  women, 
the  first  strokes  on  this  new  building  sounded  as 
those  that  form  a  log  hut,  a  barbaric  framework, 
with  which  they  scorned  to  have  any  thing  to  do; 
but  before  they  were  aware,  and  not  knowing  what 


The  Evening  Time,  137 


they  did,  the  spreading,  subtle  impulse  drew  them 
on,  and  women  in  the  churches,  to  whom  responsi- 
bility and  opportunity  were  one,  began  to  ask  them- 
selves if  there  was  no  more  which  they  could  do 
for  women  in  heathen  countries  than  to  read  the 
"  Missionary  Herald,"  and  favor  the  regular  contri- 
butions of  their  husbands  to  the  Missionary  Boards. 
The  spirit  which  moved  Mehetible  Kneeland  sixty- 
seven  years  before,  when  she  went  to  her  room  to  write 
"  One  cent  where  millions  are  needed,"  revived 
again  in  Boston,  as  all  good  spirits,  however  hindered, 
do  revive,  and  in  1869  a  new  Woman's  Board  of 
Foreign  Missions  was  organized. 

The  movement  slowly  spread  throughout  New 
England  and  the  West,  not  without  persistent  labor 
on  the  part  of  the  earnest  spirits  inspired  to  push 
it  on.  One  of  those  spirits  Mrs.  Thompson  was. 
She  added  devotion  to  this  work  to  her  activity  in 
other  directions,  and  was  made  president  of  the 
Hartford  Branch  of  the  society.  Her  official  duties 
embraced  not  only  care  of  the  regular  meetings,  of 
subscriptions  in  Hartford,  the  attendance  on  the 
annual  meeting  in  Boston,  but  the  organization  of 
auxiliary  societies  through  the  county,  correspond- 
ence with  missionaries,  and  all  those  incidental  cares 
which  fall  to  one  known  to  be  interested  in  such  an 
obiect. 


1 38  The  Eve? ling  Tmie. 

If  any  one  had  said  to  my  mother  in  1865  that  she 
would  ever  address  public  meetings,  or  preside  over 
large  bodies  assembled  to  deliberate  on  any  sub- 
ject, she  would  have  needed  no  further  proof  of 
his  insanity.  She  had  never  been  able  to  summon 
courage  to  announce  in  her  own  parlor,  that  the 
next  meeting  of  the  sewing-society  would  be  held 
at  Mrs.  John  Smith's,  but,  after  fruitless  efforts  to 
raise  her  voice  sufficiently,  had  always  ended  in  going 
privately  to  each  lady  in  the  room  to  mention  the 
appointment. 

That,  at  her  age,  powers  so  absolutely  dormant 
should  suddenly  develop,  was  a  study  of  great  in- 
terest to  her  friends.  Some  one  has  said  that  any 
woman  who  could  rule  a  household  well  could 
manage  a  kingdom.  In  her  case,  experience  in 
care-taking,  with  her  clear,  composed,  definite  habit 
of  mind,  was  found  to  adapt  her  unusually  to  the 
duties  of  a  presiding  officer,  while  her  ardent  piety 
diffused  itself  like  leaven  through  the  assembly.  "  I 
could  always  feel,"  said  one,  *'  when  Mrs.  Thompson 
led  in  prayer,  that  the  spiritual  plane  of  a  meeting 
was  raised."  Once  having  conquered  her  shrinking, 
she  found  her  voice  could  be  distinctly  heard  in  any 
part  of  any  room  where  she  tried  to  use  it.  Pushed 
on,  step  by  step,  by  the  pressure  of  evident  duty, 
she  found  herself  praying  and  speaking  in  crowded 


The  Evening  Time,  1 39 

churches,  with  as  much  ease  as  she  felt  in  ghding 
through  the  ball-room  in  the  days  of  her  girlhood. 
*'  If  she  had  not  spoken,"  some  one  said,  "  it  would 
have  been  a  blessing  to  have  her  lovely  face  to  look 
at  as  she  sat  on  the  platform ;  "  but  when  she  rose, 
with  the  dignity  that  comes  from  self-forgetfulness  and 
absorption  in  a  great  thought,  to  plead  the  cause 
of  suffering  women  in  Turkey,  or  India,  grounding 
every  appeal  on  some  solid  principle,  there  was  felt 
to  be  in  her,  force  as  well  as  sweetness.  That  unusual 
knowledge  of  the  Bible  which  she  had  gained  by 
life-long  study,  was  singularly  telling.  It  had  a  sort 
of  vitality,  tested  as  it  had  been  by  the  successive 
steps  of  her  practical  life,  seeming  from  her  lips 
something  tangible,  as  a  ship's  compass  or  a  harbor 
light.  To  an  age  in  whose  vacillations  and  perplex- 
ities of  religious  thought  it  was  not  her  part  to  share, 
she  offered  that  most  precious  of  all  helps,  the  solid 
fact  of  a  genuine  Christlike  life,  consciously  built 
up  on  confidence  in  Him. 

It  was  said  by  one  who  met  her  only  at  these 
missionary  meetings,  *'  There  was  a  motherliness 
about  her;  you  felt  you  could  give  her  your  confi- 
dence, and  it  would  not  be  misplaced  ;  "  and  it  was  not 
uncommon  for  one  to  whisper  to  another  as  she  passed 
up  the  aisle,  "  If  there  was  ever  a  good  woman  it  is 
she."     After  her  work  was  done,  one  who  had  worked 


140  The  Eve?iing  Time, 

with  her  wrote :  ''  She  was  a  tower  of  strength,  both 
in  the  Branch  of  which  she  was  president,  and  in  the 
Board  at  Boston.  She  was  wise  and  judicious  in 
counsel,  true  in  friendship,  equal  to  an  emergency, 
and  breathing  so  naturally  the  spirit  of  prayer  that 
she  carried  all  hearts  with  her  very  near  the  throne. 
There  w^as  a  warm-hearted  sincerity  in  her  that  made 
friends  of  all.  Who  that  attended  the  meeting  of 
the  American  Board  in  Hartford  can  forget  her 
warm  welcome,  her  large  hospitality?  Yet  she  found 
the  time  amid  all  her  cares  to  do  helpful  things  for 
others." 

In  the  establishment  of  the  school  for  girls  at 
Constantinople  she  felt  an  intense  interest,  and  raised 
large  sums  for  it  by  the  most  untiring  personal  effort. 
It  is  perhaps  the  most  definite  memorial  of  her 
missionary  work.  In  one  of  its  rooms  her  picture 
hangs,  and  a  missionary , teacher  writes  of  the  girls 
going  up  to  it  and  saying,  *'  To  look  at  her  helps  me 
to  be  good."  In  correspondence  with  Miss  Stark- 
weather, Miss  Strong,  and  other  missionaries  sent 
out  by  the  Woman's  Board,  she  opened  the  treasures 
of  her  Christian  experience  and  made  her  own 
strength  a  strength  to  them.  In  the  ''  Life  and 
Light"  for  February,  1879,  a  letter  from  Miss  Strong, 
missionary  in  Mexico,  records  an  incident,  —  one 
probably  of  many  that  are  unrecorded :  — 


The  Evening  Time.  141 

"  It  was  a  time  of  great  depression  in  the  mission 
at  M.  Death  had  taken  away  some  of  the  most 
efficient  native  helpers.  At  last  one  of  the  only  two 
remaining  missionaries  was  stricken  down  with  the 
epidemic.  The  disease  had  spent  its  force,  but  it 
seemed  doubtful  whether  the  frail  body  would  rally. 
How  desolate  and  afflicted  we  were  within  those 
lonely  walls  !  The  days  passed  wearily  on  in  my 
weakness  in  an  upper  room,  for  I  too  was  prostrated, 
under  the  care  of  a  native  woman  and  her  daughter. 
Well  I  remember  the  sad  days,  the  intense  anxiety 
that  the  missionary  whose  burdens  had  been  so  heavy 
in  the  burial  of  the  dead  and  the  relief  of  the  sick, 
when  outside  help  and  sympathy  from  the  foreigners 
were  repelled  because  of  contagion,  might  be  spared, 
and  the  little  band  of  praying  ones  might  not  be 
bereft  of  their  teacher. 

''  As  I  lay  on  my  couch,  growing  feverish  and  rest- 
less over  my  perplexing  thoughts,  suddenly  a  strange 
calm  came  over  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  a  little  child 
again,  and  had  been  soothed  and  hushed  to  rest  in 
my  mother's  arms.  Just  then  my  friend  came  in  to 
inquire  how  I  was,  fearing  to  hear  the  same  sad 
answer  heard  so  often  before.  But  to-day  I  said  joy- 
fully, '  I  am  better,  decidedly  better!  I  think  I  shall 
get  well.  The  strangest  feeling  has  come  over  me  the 
last  hour,  as  if  I  had  new  life.     I  don't  understand 


142  The  Eventing  Time. 

it,'  and  soon  added,  *  I  believe  I  know  what  it  is.  I 
am  sure  some  one  is  praying  for  me.  I  think  I  will 
try  to  prove  it.  I  asked  my  nurse  to  bring  me  my 
*  Daily  Food,'  and,  turning  to  the  day  of  the  month, 
I  marked  it,  saying  to  myself,  '  I  may  hear  about 
this  day  in  another  place.'  From  that  hour,  inspired 
by  new  courage,  I  began  to  recover,  and  was  soon 
able  to  resume  my  duties.  Weeks  passed  by,  and 
I  had  almost  forgotten  the  incident,  when  one  day 
I  received  a  letter  from  a  friend,  in  which  was  the 
following  sentence :  '  In  January  I  attended  the  meet- 
ing of  the  Woman's  Board  in  Pilgrim  Hall,  Boston, 
and  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  the  earnest  prayers 
offered  for  you,  especially  by  Mrs.  Thompson,  Presi- 
dent of  the  Hartford  Branch.'  I  compared  the  date 
with  the  one  in  my  '  Daily  Food,'  and  the  coinci- 
dence was  complete." 

Among  my  mother's  papers  there  is  an  essay  on 
the  history  of  missions  in  India,  closing  thus :  "  The 
question  is  asked.  Why  w^ere  women  sent  at  this 
juncture?  Simply  because  the  work  could  not  be 
done  without  them.  They  were  not  only  ready  to 
go,  but  cheerfully  laid  themselves  on  the  altar,  and 
never  regretted  the  sacrifice.  What  would  the  Pil- 
grim fathers  have  been  without  the  Pilgrim  mothers? 
Their  patient  endurance,  their  unwavering  faith,  sus- 
tained the  courage  of  the  men,  who  emulated  their 


The  Evening  Time,  143 

bravery.  Woman  was  made  a  helpmeet  for  man. 
Death  is  ever  busy  thinning  the  ranks  of  missionary 
workers,  but  the  reserves  come  promptly  forward  to 
fill  the  gaps.  Many  of  us  may  live  to  see  the  day 
when  India  shall  be  a  Christian  nation,  shedding  light 
on  that  dark  continent.  When  China  and  Japan  fall 
into  line,  then  will  be  our  time  to  sing  our  hallelujah. 
Shall  we  not  vie  with  each  other  in  obeying  the 
dying  command  of  our  Lord,  and  in  blessing  others, 
receive  a  rich  reward  ourselves?  This  is  God's  way. 
'  The  Lord  turned  the  captivity  of  Job  when  he 
prayed  for  his  friends.'  " 

She  felt  strongly  in  regard  to  the  harmony  between 
home  and  foreign  missionary  work.  Practically,  in 
going  through  the  county  to  establish  foreign  mis- 
sionary societies,  she  found  that  the  women  most 
ready  to  enter  into  the  work  were  those  already  most 
engaged  in  caring  for  our  own  frontier.  At  the  last 
meeting  she  attended,  in  January,  1879,  and  in  her 
last  public  address,  she  spoke  on  this  subject,  saying 
there  was  no  conflict  between  the  two,  and,  while 
upholding  enthusiastically  the  home  work,  insisted 
that  more  intelligent  knowledge  of  the  foreign  field 
was  the  great  thing  needed,  and  that  our  work  abroad 
must  not  be  left  to  suffer. 

No  woman  in  Hartford  was  more  untiring  in  the 
preparation  of  home-missionary  boxes,  or  more  quick 


144  '^^^  Eveiimg  Time, 

to  respond  to  special  calls  from  the  West  for  help, 
or  to  spend  long  afternoons  in  the  extra  service  of 
sewing  and  arranging,  that  comes  to  a  few  after  such 
boxes  are  nearly  ready.  One  who  was  associated 
■with  her  in  these  ways  said,  when  she  had  gone,  "  We 
so  enjoyed  those  afternoons.  We  shall  miss  Mrs. 
Thompson's  laugh  as  much  as  her  prayers;"  and 
another,  w^ho  was  of  a  despondent,  questioning  turn, 
said,  "  How  shall  we  live  without  her?  She  had  the 
most  childlike  soul  I  ever  knew." 

One  more  great  sorrow  was  to  fall  before  the  time 
of  her  own  release.  In  1868,  just  after  the  ordina- 
tion of  her  second  son,  William,  my  mother  had 
written  as  follows  in  *'  The  Waif,"  a  family  letter  which 
circulated  weekly  among  her  children :  "  September 
will  henceforth  be  to  us  the  beginning  of  months. 
Perhaps  no  one  of  the  events  that  mark  that  period 
[referring  to  its  being  the  month  of  her  own  and  her 
two  daughters'  wedding-days,  of  the  birthday  of  the 
oldest  son,  and  of  the  fatal  battle  of  Antietam],  is 
of  more  vital  importance  than  the  one  just  passed, 
the  setting  apart  of  the  son  and  brother  to  be  an 
ambassador  of  Christ.  The  mother's  thoughts  re- 
verted to  the  days  of  childhood,  the  early  conse- 
cration, that  terrible  illness  and  reprieve  from  death, 
the  alternate  hopes  and  fears,  through  early  youth 
the   constant  effort  to  train   you    to   the  service   of 


The  Evening  Time.  145 

Christ,  his  gracious  acceptance,  sealed  at  last,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  by  that  solemn  service." 

She  had  a  peculiar  satisfaction  in  his  work  as  well 
as  in  his  character.  From  his  boyhood  he  had 
been  one  concerning  whom  friends  involuntarily  said, 
**  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,"  —  a  thoroughly  true, 
chivalrous,  noble  soul ;  but,  with  much  good  work 
done,  and  more  just  opening  before  him,  he  fell 
suddenly  ill  on  his  return  from  a  summer  vacation, 
and  died  on  the  17th  of  September,  1876,  at  his 
home  in  Reading,  IVIass. 

She  had  known  once  before  the  withering  of 
hopes,  the  sudden  going  down  of  the  sun  before  the 
morning  dew  was  dry ;  but  this  blighting  of  promise 
fell  with  a  heavy  chill.  It  was  not  only  all  she 
hoped  to  see  him  accomplish  that  had  faded  away, 
but,  as  they  felt  themselves  turning  to  go  down  the 
slope,  the  parents  found  their  hearts  more  and  more 
leaning  on  him.  He  had  the  steadfast,  unfailing  con- 
siderateness,  united  with  his  sterling  qualities,  to  make 
him  a  son  to  comfort  one's  old  age. 

She  was  with  him  to  the  last,  catching  his  dying 

words  of  assured  faith  and  his  heavenly  smile,  as  he 

had  glimpses  of  what  was  just  before.     "  My  precious 

mother,"   she   would    hear   him   whisper,   as  his  eye 

followed   her   here   and   there   in   the   room.     A   few 

days  after  he  went,  one   of  the  family  said,  smiling 

10 


146  The  Evening  Time. 

through  her  tears,  *'  Mother,  there  Avill  never  be  a 
time  for  you  to  go.  We  cannot  Hve  without  you, 
and  we  certainly  cannot  die  without  you."  But 
another  said  when  she  had  gone  out,  seeing  how  she 
shook  under  this  last  blow,  "  I  hope  she  need  not 
have  this  to  go  through  again.  I  hope  no  more  of 
us  will  be  taken  till  she  is  at  rest,"  and  that  prayer 
was  heard. 

She  did  not  allow  her  grief  to  hinder  her  entering 
with  a  peaceful  delight  into  a  long-anticipated  fes- 
tival, the  celebration  on  the  17th  of  the  following 
February,  of  her  husband's  seventieth  birthday.  The 
gathering,  an  entire  surprise  to  him,  was  held  at  the 
home  of  his  only  remaining  brother.  Dr.  Augustus 
C.  Thompson,  of  Boston  Highlands.  He  had  been 
one  of  the  happy  group  who  welcomed  the  same 
brother  when  he  brought  his  young  wife  home  to 
them  forty  years  before,  and  had  been  much  in  the 
home  by  the  Seminary  in  those  days,  marrying 
Elizabeth  Strong,  Eliza  Butler's  old  Northampton 
friend,  whom  he  now  brought  for  a  while  to  Windsor. 
The  gathering  was  full  of  memories  as  well  as  of 
rejoicing.  One  of  these  two  sisters,  of  whom  my 
mother  had  written  long  ago,  *'  The  tie  of  blood 
could  not  have  made  them  nearer,"  had  married 
Eleazar  Lord,  a  merchant  of  New  York.  Her  beau- 
tiful home  on  the  Hudson  became  associated,  as  time 


The  Ev Citing  Time.  147 

went  on,  with  some  of  the  choicest  hours  of  rest  and 
refreshment  in  my  mother's  busy  years.  Watching 
the  white  sails  go  by  on  the  Tappan  Zee,  strolHng 
in  the  cedar  groves,  gathering  bittersweet,  and 
breathing  in  all  the  exquisite  charm  of  that  land- 
scape, she  took  breath  there  for  fresh  toil.  With 
equal  readiness  she  had  responded  to  the  summons 
that  called  her  to  the  same  home  in  times  of  sickness 
and  sorrow,  smoothing  the  dying  pillow  of  the  niece 
to  whom  in  her  school-days  she  had  rejoiced  to  give 
a  mother's  care;  sharing  the  anxiety  that  came  with 
Mr.  Lord's  slow  decline  and  death,  and  at  last,  in  the 
closing  scene,  when  the  sister  went  through  a  bap- 
tism of  fire  to  rejoin  the  husband  and  child.  All 
these  sorrowful  changes,  as  well  as  those  in  her  own 
home,  and  the  others  of  the  group,  became  vivid 
when  the  kindred  that  remained  gathered  to  wish 
joy  to  the  one  who  had  come  to  seventy  years.  Yet 
it  was  a  happy  day.  To  see  him  she  loved  best 
surrounded  by  loving  appreciation,  was  enough  to 
call  out  her  sweetest  smile  of  content. 

That  company  had  hardly  scattered  before  the 
sudden  removal  of  her  daughter  Elizabeth  to  Kansas 
was  a  fresh  strain  on  her  love  and  faith.  While  Mr. 
Spring's  pastorate  was  in  Fitchburg,  that  home,  like 
the  others,  was  within  a  few  hours'  journey  of  Hart- 
ford, but  Kansas  seemed  far  away.     The  separation 


148  The  Evening  Time, 

was  peculiarly  trying,  coming  to  her  while  the  wound 
of  William's  death  was  still  fresh,  and  those  that 
remained  instinctively  clung  closer  together.  They 
all  knew  well  that  the  change  meant  not  only  more 
infrequent  visits,  but  a  numbing  sense  of  distance  in 
case  of  sudden  illness,  or  the  coming  again  of  that 
messenger  whose  summons  had  twice  broken  the 
circle.  Considerations  of  health  and  other  indica- 
tions made  the  path  so  plain  that  there  Avas  nothing 
but  to  follow  where  Providence  led,  and  those  who 
went  took  with  them  the  blessing  of  her  cheerful, 
trustful  acquiescence. 

During  this  year  she  wrote  to  her  son  Charles  in 
regard  to  some  changes  in  the  family  connection :  — 

"  So  the  history  of  families  closes  up.  One  gen- 
eration goeth  and  another  cometh.  Shall  we  not 
live  more  as  seeing  the  invisible?  While  performing 
the  duties  and  enjoying  the  blessings  of  this  life, 
shall  not  its  hold  be  light  upon  us,  and  our  position 
that  of  listening  for  the  boatman's  oar  to  take  us 
to  the  other  side?  The  attractions  over  there  are 
growing  stronger  and  stronger,  and  its  rest  and 
blessedness  more  and  more  alluring.  As  I  write, 
how  many  thoughts  come  trooping  through  my 
brain,  thoughts  of  love  and  loving  trust !  You  were 
always  inexpressibly  dear  to  me,  but  now  there  is  a 
peculiar  tenderness  mingled  with    the    love,  a  sense 


The  Evening  Time.  149 


of  preciousness,  as  you  stand  before  me,  the  only 
one  left  of  *  the  three  beautiful  lads.'  May  the  Lord 
spare  you  till  after  our  work  is  done,  and  may  we 
all  go  up  to  receive  the  crown  with  as  firm  a  trust 
and  as  clear  a  title  as  those  who  are  already  there  ! 

*'  A  number  of  very  sudden  deaths  lately  make  us 
feel  that  we  are  sure  of  nothing  here,  and  invariably 
I  have  a  throb  of  grateful  relief  when  I  hear  your 
father's  step  on  the  stair. 

*'  I  quoted  that  remark  about  sending  so  much 
money  out  of  the  country  for  missions,  at  our  meet- 
ing last  week,  and  made  some  comments  upon  it. 
The  command  embraces  all  nations.  The  condition 
of  our  sex,  for  whom  we  especially  labor  in  unchris- 
tian lands,  is  wretched,  so  far  below  any  thing  possible 
in  this  country,  that  the  call  is  imperative  to  apply 
the  only  remedy,  the  gospel  of  the  Lord  Jesus. 
Think  of  Christian  churches  and  Christian  families 
standing  as  so  many  beacon-lights  in  the  terrible 
darkness.  The  five  loaves  and  two  small  fishes  are 
being  fed  to  the  multitudes,  and  by  and  by  we  will 
bring  back  the  twelve  baskets  full  to  bless  our  own 
dark  places.  More  ought  to  be  done  for  both  home 
and  foreign  work,  and  they  react  upon  each  other." 

In  September,  1878,  she  writes  to  the  same  son:  — 

''  How  strange  it  seems  that  it  will  be  forty-four 
years  to-morrow  that  your  father  and  I  have  walked 


150  The  Evening  Time, 

side  by  side  !  How  different  every  thing  seems  from 
what  it  did  that  bright,  beautiful  morning,  when  we 
went  forth,  hand  in  hand,  from  the  parental  roof,  so 
unconscious  of  what  we  were  actually  doing.  We 
have  known  joy  and  sorrow^  smiles  and  tears,  but 
the  result  is  all  that  could  be  desired.  We  have 
grown  into  each  other,  and  the  union  was  never 
more  perfect  than  to-day.  Can  it  be  that  it  is  forty- 
two  years  since  I  received  you,  a  helpless  infant,  to 
my  loving  care?  I  can  truly  say  that  you  have  been 
a  joy  and  comfort  to  me  ever  since,  not  w^holly  un- 
mixed, it  is  true,  like  every  thing  earthly,  with  anxious 
care,  but  the  blessed  Master  has  borne  that  for  me, 
and  given  me  loving-kindness  and  tender  mercy. 
My  prayer  is  that  in  coming  years  your  children  may 
give  you  occasion  to  say  as  much. 

**  In  my  dealings  with  the  great  Intercessor  I  have 
held  on  to  you  and  yours,  and  in  the  covenant  of 
his  love  I  think  he  has  held  on  to  me  and  granted 
my  requests.  He  has  taught  me  what  I  could  and 
what  I  could  not  do,  and  when  I  laid  the  latter  unto 
him,  he  did  it  in  his  own  time  and  way.  I  am  com- 
ing to  feel  it  is  to  him  I  am  to  carry  all  my  anxieties 
for  your  children's  highest  interests.  They  are  the 
children  of  the  covenant,  and  many^  prayers  are 
registered  for  them  on  high.  The  boys  were  so 
affectionate  during  my  last  visit  it  did  my  heart  good. 


The  Evening  Time,  151 

I  feel  I  have  a  hold  upon  them  which  may  tell  for 
their  benefit  in  future  years,  when  I  am  gone  beyond 
their  sight.  How  soon  that  time  may  come,  who 
can  tell?  They  may  go  before  me  and  leave  me 
like  a  shattered  trunk.  '  As  He  will.'  The  things 
of  time  seem  more  and  more  unimportant.  The 
certainties  of  the  coming  eternity  are  the  only 
realities.  I  am  reading  John's  Gospel,  and  was  never 
more  impressed  with  the  infinite  tenderness  of  the 
great  God,  our  Saviour.  His  justice  and  holiness 
stand  out  like  the  great  rocks,  but  the  mercy  over- 
flows them  all." 

Mrs.  Thompson  had  felt  it  a  very  tender  mercy 
that  the  home  of  her  daughter  Mary  should  be  at 
Middletown,  only  an  hour's  ride  from  Hartford. 
Though  she  missed  keenly  the  frequent  sight  of  the 
daughter's  face,  one  great  pleasure  of  the  last  year 
of  mother's  life  was  in  receiving  her  letters  written 
during  a  tour  in  Europe.  Those  six  months  she  was 
following  the  absent  daughter  everywhere  and  sharing 
all  her  experiences.  While  the  party  were  in  Scot- 
land she  wrote  with  great  enthusiasm  of  her  love  for 
that  country,  and  for  the  first  time  expressed  the 
desire  she  had  always  had  to  visit  it.  It  was  a  dream 
of  youth  that  had  survived  all  her  years  of  care, 
kindling  again  just  now  when  she  was  so  near  the 
life  where  the  desires  of  the  heart  are  granted. 


152  The  Evening  Tirne. 

Directly  after  Mary  sailed,  my  mother  went  for  a 
time  to  Falmouth,  —  the  home  of  Mrs.  Jenkins,  her 
husband's  only  remaining  sister,  where  for  many 
years  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  spending  happy 
weeks.  For  the  first  time  it  was  noticed  she  did  not 
care  for  the  sea-bathing  that  had  always  been  a  great 
delight  to  her.  There  were  some  other  signs  of 
diminished  strength,  but  it  was  felt  to  be  the  most 
delightful  of  all  the  visits  she  had  ever  made.  The 
sisters  had  long,  inspiring  conversations  on  subjects 
that  lay  nearest  their  hearts,  while  she  was  the  very 
life  of  the  picnics  proposed  by  the  younger  members 
of  the  family  party.  As  some  one  wrote  of  her, 
**  Mrs.  Thompson  was  never  old."  The  earth  was 
beautiful  to  her,  and  the  innocent  joy  of  the  young, 
while  she  felt  herself  nearing  a  more  unfettered  and 
satisfying  country. 

From  Falmouth,  she  went  to  Magnolia  Beach,  a 
region  she  had  before  greatly  enjoyed,  and  returned 
in  very  good  health  to  Hartford  in  September. 

There  she  felt  more  than  ever  the  distance  of  the 
daughter  whom  she  had  been  used  to  feel  so  near. 
The  time  before  the  middle  of  November,  when  she 
was  to  return,  seemed  insupportably  long.  It  had 
been  her  habit,  if  she  could  not  reason  herself  into 
cheerfulness,  to  take  some  course  that  would  induce 
it.     Many  a  day,  when,  sitting  in  her  room,  loneliness 


The  Eventing  Time.  153 

began  to  oppress  her,  and  her  heart  began  to  sink, 
not  with  great  sorrow,  for  which  only  God  was  her 
refuge,  but  with  that  indefinable  depression  which 
grand  considerations  do  not  touch,  she  would  lay 
aside  her  sewing  or  reading,  and  go  out  to  spend 
an  hour  with  a  friend.  Happily  she  had  one  or  two 
with  fineness  enough  to  perceive  that  it  is  often  the 
bravest  hearts  and  least  complaining  that  most  need 
comfort.  Or  she  would  decide  that  it  was  time  to 
attend  to  the  collection  on  some  street,  or  consult 
in  regard  to  the  Church  Street  Home,  or  call  on 
some  one  in  sickness  or  sorrow.  Any  thing  that 
savored  of  weakness,  *'  parading  one's  own  troubles," 
as  she  used  to  say,  or  letting  a  gloomy  face  implore 
sympathy,  was  her  especial  aversion.  There  were 
very  few  who  penetrated  the  secret  of  her  cheerful- 
ness, or  knew  that  the  sunshine  she  carried  with  her 
was  often  won  by  courageous  combat. 

This  autumn,  it  was  her  old  habit  of  flanking  the 
enemy  she  could  not  vanquish  in  any  other  way,  that 
made  her  so  ready  to  shorten  the  time  of  waiting  by 
yielding  to  her  brother  Daniel's  urgency  to  visit  him 
in  Green  Bay,  Wisconsin,  in  connection  with  the 
Foreign  Missionary  meeting  at  Milwaukee.  Just 
entering  her  seventieth  year,  and  unused  to  taking 
long  journeys  alone,  she  was  half-startled  by  her 
own  courage  when   she    found  herself  fairly  on  the 


154  1^^^^  Evening  Time, 

way,    but   she    said    it  seemed    to    her   ''  Providence 
arranged  every  thing." 

The  home  in  Green  Bay,  where  her  brother  had 
Hved  for  forty  years,  she  had  never  seen,  and  several 
members  of  the  family.  It  was  a  great  joy  to  her 
to  renew  the  old  ties  as  well  as  to  take  into  her  arms 
the  brother's  grandchildren.  She  entered  warmly 
into  the  interests  of  each  one,  and  left  behind  her  a 
fresh  spirit  of  hope  and  cheer  in  the  household 
atmosphere. 

The  relatives  in  Chicago,  with  whom  she  spent  a 
few  days,  retain  similar  impressions,  her  face  and 
manner  remaining  as  the  memory  of  a  lovely  picture, 
seen  there  for  the  first  and  the  last  time.  It  was 
such  a  greeting  and  farewell  as  she  would  have 
chosen  if  she  had  known  what  lay  beyond  the  next 
turn  in  her  road,  for  she  held  that  loving  fellowship 
with  God  and  with  men,  rather  than  secluded  medi- 
tation on  '*  our  great  and  last  change,"  is  the  best 
attitude  in  which  to  be  found  when  the  cry  is  made, 
*'  Go  ye  out  to  meet  the  Bridegroom." 

From  Green  Bay  she  wrote  to  her  daughter  Mary : 
**The  day  of  wonders  has  not  ceased  !  I  am  actually 
here ;  '  Out  West,'  at  Daniel's.  Think  of  it  a  minute 
and  take  it  in  !  Daniel  wrote  for  your  father  and 
me  to  arrange  for  a  visit  in  connection  with  the 
meeting  of  the  Board.     Father  could  n't  come,  and 


The  Evening  Time,  155 

of  course  I  could  n't  come  alone,  and  so  settled  the 
matter  with  a  secret  feeling  that  I  wanted  to  come. 
D.  was  so  disappointed,  and  urged  it  so  strongly, 
that  I  concluded,  as  I  lacked  thirteen  months  of  being 
seventy,  I  could  go  alone  yet !  I  don't  see  that  the 
West  is  particularly  different  from  the  East;  the 
large  corn-fields  in  place  of  our  tobacco  please  me, 
but  the  rivers  have  no  banks  and  the  brooks  arc 
muddy  canals.  This  journey  answers  one  good 
purpose,  sJioi'tening  the  time.  You  don't  know  how 
I  miss  you  on  going  back  to  Hartford.  I  can't  bear 
to  stay  there  and  know  that  neither  of  you  is  within 
call  [referring  to  her  daughter-in-law,  Mrs.  William 
Thompson,  whose  home  was  in  Hartford,  and  who 
was  now  with  friends  in  Europe]. 

"  I  am  rather  ashamed,  but  it  is  a  new  revelation 
of  the  fact  that  my  life  is  very  much  wrapped  up  in 
my  daughters.  You  may  know  that  your  loving 
care  is  making  my  last  years  very  happy.  I  slept 
well  on  the  cars,  soothed  by  the  lullaby  of  the  engine. 
The  scenery  among  the  Alleghanies  was  very  fine. 
Imagining  the  clouds  to  be  snow-capped  Alps,  we 
could  fancy  ourselves  in  Switzerland,  but  here  it  is 
Jlat.  Just  before  I  left  Hartford,  Mr.  F.  took  me  out 
to  the  cemetery.  The  grass  had  just  been  cut,  the 
Japan  lilies  were  in  full  bloom  and  looked  elegantly. 
It  was  a  little  cloudy,  and  there  was  a  tinge  of  autumn 


156  TJie  Evening  Time, 

on  the  scene.  I  thought  of  the  contrast  between 
this  and  their  present  abode,  of  the  joy  and  the  glory, 
and,  hke  old  Pilgrim,  almost  wished  that  I  were 
among  them.  It  won't  be  long.  In  nineteen  days 
I  shall  be  sixty-nine.  There  may  be  many  days  yet 
of  labor  and  enjoyment.     '  As  Thou  wilt.'  " 

October  18.  —  "There  is  a  certain  bounding  of  the 
heart,  when  I  think  this  may  be  the  last  letter  I  shall 
write  to  you  in  your  wanderings.  When  I  returned 
from  the  sea,  the  thought  of  that  long  three  months 
before  you  would  come  almost  paralyzed  me ;  but 
the  Western  journey,  and  now  the  annual  meeting  of 
our  Board  with  its  attendant  cares,  have  so  broken 
the  time,  the  remainder  seems  short.  I  met  L. 
on  the  street  yesterday  while  I  was  hunting  maple 
leaves  for  Miss  T.  to  take  to  Ceylon.  He  laughed, 
and  said  he  thought  he  should  find  me  in  some  such 
work.  Our  next  communication  will  be  face  to  face. 
The  Lord  grant  it  in  his  time  !  How  mercifully  he 
has  kept  us  all  in  our  going  out  and  our  coming  in  ! 
Shall  we  not  trust  him  for  the  future?  I  have  read 
the  fortieth  chapter  of  Isaiah  several  times  lately, 
and  every  time  with  new  delight.  This  wonder- 
working God  says  to  us  in  the  next  chapter,  '  Fear 
thou  not,  for  /  am  with  thee.'  Did  he  not  hold  you 
with  his  hand  when  you  slipped  on  the  mountains? 
He  will  hold  you,  and  the  waters  too,  in  the  hollow 


The  Evening  Time,  157 

of  his  hand  when  you  are  tossed  on  the  billows.  I 
was  hardly  rested  from  my  journey,  which  seems 
more  and  more  like  a  dream,  when  the  annual  meet- 
ing of  our  Board  came  on.  I  entertained  Miss  T., 
and  enjoyed  it  very  much.  She  is  a  valuable  woman. 
I  bought  her  a  large  doll,  and  Mrs.  P.  is  dressing  it, 
to  be  used  in  attracting  young  people  around  her. 
I  hope  some  of  the  ladies  will  give  her  some  games, 
ingenious  puzzles  and  toys.  The  meeting  was  fully 
attended,  and  it  is  said,  the  best  we  ever  had.  This 
was  a  great  comfort  to  me,  as  I  felt  rather  ^f*^/  in  the 
morning  after  visiting  Monday  with  Miss  T.  and 
others,  callers,  taking  tea  at  J.'s,  a  *  faculty  meeting ' 
at  Mrs.  M.'s,  some  copying  after  coming  home,  and 
a  wide-awake  night !  I  hope  we  shall  do  more  effec- 
tive work  in  the  year  to  come.  In  what  I  said  at  the 
close  I  urged  the  thought,  prominent  here  and  at 
Milwaukee,  of  personal  responsibility.  Miss  M.  from 
St.  Augustine  was  here,  and  told  us  about  the  In- 
dians who  were  taught  there.  How  little  Mrs.  M. 
and  I  thought,  when  as  children  we  played  under 
those  old  elm-trees,  that  at  this  end  of  our  lives  we 
should  be  striving  together  to  plant  trees  of  right- 
eousness in  the  garden  of  the  Lord.  Many  childish 
experiences  came  fresh  to  mind ;  filling  my  apron 
with  corn  from  father's  crib,  slipping  through  a 
hole  in  the  fence  and  feeding  it  to  the  lambs.     The 


158  The  Evening  Time, 


creatures  looked  just  as  sweet  to  me,  when  I  saw  them 
in  the  pastures  in  Wisconsin,  as  they  used  to  then. 

"  It  will  take  all  winter  to  relate  all  our  experiences 
on  both  sides  of  the  \vater.  I  thought  I  knew  before 
how  much  I  loved  you,  but  I  did  not." 

The  party  returned  from  Europe  in  November. 
The  faces  of  the  father  and  mother  were  the  first  to 
welcome  them  at  the  parsonage  door  in  Middletown, 
my  mother  feeling  her  cup  of  joy  to  be  quite  full 
then,  and  in  the  succeeding  weeks.  Thanksgiving 
Day  was  kept  there,  and  then  she  went  back  to  Hart- 
ford, busied  in  preparing  a  Christmas-box  for  her 
children  and  grandchildren  in  Kansas.  Snow-storms 
and  accidents  delayed  it,  so  that  it  did  not  arrive  till 
the  middle  of  January.  She  was  troubled,  but  sure 
she  should  hear  of  its  coming  at  last,  saying:  ''The 
Lord  has  never  failed  me  yet.  I  committed  that  box 
to  him,  and  I  believe  he  will  take  care  of  it." 

The  last  letter  she  received  from  that  home  was 
the  one  announcing  its  arrival  at  last.  It  made  her 
happy  that  the  Christmas-tree  was  relighted,  and  all 
the  joy  realized  which  had  been  planned.  Among 
the  gifts  for  the  children,  were  two  picture-frames 
their  grandmother  had  made  from  shells  she  had 
gathered  three  years  before  on  the  shore  of  a  pond 
in  Goshen,  where  their  grandfather  had  played  when 
he  was  a  boy. 


The  Evening  Time.  159 

In  December  a  granddaughter  of  Mr.  Ellsworth  was 
married  at  Windsor.  It  was  in  the  same  home  which 
had  welcomed  father  and  mother  in  1834.  It  has 
seemed  beautiful  since,  that  her  unconscious  farewell 
to  that  scene  and  circle  should  have  been  in  attend- 
ing this  gathering  with  him.  It  was  with  wedding 
harmonies  that  different  scenes  of  her  life  had  closed. 
Whatever  dirges  there  had  been,  nothing  had  ended  so. 
It  had  all  been  in  the  spirit  of  the  Greek  chorus,  — 

"  Sing  sorrow,  strife  and  sorrow. 
But  let  victory  remain." 

To  that  motto  of  the  early  Christians,  *'  To  suffer  and 
to  love,"  she  had  always  added,  '*  Hope  to  the  end." 

On  New  Year's  Day  my  father  and  mother  made 
many  calls  together.  The  day  was  fine,  making  the 
drive  and  the  interchange  of  "  Happy  New  Year !  " 
specially  cheerful  and  joyous. 

"  I  used  often  to  watch  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Thompson 
from  my  window  as  they  Avent  by,"  says  a  lady  who 
lived  near  them,  **  and  think  how  beautiful  it  was  to 
see  persons  at  their  age  lovers  still.  It  seemed  to 
mean  so  much  more  than  with  the  young." 

On  the  loth  of  January  my  mother  set  out  with 
friends  for  Boston,  to  attend  the  wedding  of  Dr. 
Augustus  Thompson's  eldest  daughter,  the  child  of 
her  old  friend  Elizabeth  Strong. 

On  the  way  she  spent  Sunday  at  Worcester,  her 


i6o  The  Evening  Time, 


face  wearing,  all  the  while  during  the  visit,  a  peculiarly 
serene,  happy  expression,  though  she  was  not  quite 
well,  having  started  from  Hartford  with  rather  a 
severe  cold.  There  was  a  detention  of  two  hours  at 
the  station  on  Monday  morning,  owing  to  a  delayed 
train.  "  Mother  was  beautiful  about  it,"  Mary  wrote. 
"  She  sat  like  a  saint,  knitting,  and  talking  with  me, 
in  a  remote  corner  of  the  station,  seeming  to  acqui- 
esce sweetly,  and  concluded  to  stand  by  Providence 
still."  She  was  prevented  by  this  from  being  present 
at  the  opening  meeting  of  the  Woman's  Missionary 
Society  in  Boston,  which  she  had  so  much  wished  to 
attend.  On  Tuesday  afternoon  she  was  there.  She 
took  her  seat  in  the  audience,  not  feeling  quite  well ; 
but  when  asked  to  come  forward  and  open  the  meet- 
ing with  prayer,  gave  a  characteristic  reply,  "  Yes,  if 
I  am  needed."  The  earnestness  of  her  prayer  is 
remembered,  as  well  as  the  heavenly  spirit  of  her 
address  in  reporting  for  the  Hartford  society.  She 
spoke  of  the  work  in  Connecticut  as  not  so  much 
spreading  as  deepening,  and  of  the  return  of  Miss 
T.  to  India.  Miss  T.,  she  said,  went  back  with  the 
romance  of  the  missionary  life  quite  over,  and  her 
affection  for  her  native  land  stronger  than  ever,  yet 
for  the  love  of  Christ  she  was  glad  to  go.  As 
she  leaned  forward  over  the  desk,  emphasizing 
the   constraining   power   of  the   love   of  Christ,  the 


The  Evening  Time.  1 6 1 


audience  was  deeply  moved,  feeling  the  almost  tangi- 
ble presence  of  the  Saviour,  and  a  certain  thrill  of 
new  devotion  to  him.  She  closed  by  urging  all  to 
increased  activity  *'  for  Jesus'  sake."  *'  For  Jesus' 
sake,"  wrote  Mrs.  Dr.  Noble,  of  Chicago,  "  it  seems 
was  her  last  imperishable  word ;  a  sweet  and  lofty 
motive  for  all  we  try  to  do  in  this  missionary  work." 

Wednesday  morning,  the  morning  of  the  wedding- 
day,  my  mother  went  up  to  the  room  where  her 
sister  Mrs.  Jenkins  was  confined  with  an  influenza. 
She  sat  by  her  bedside,  speaking  of  many  things, 
her  journey,  her  winter  plans,  &c.  The  death  of  a 
friend  was  spoken  of,  and  Mrs.  J.  said :  '*  How  soon 
that  may  come  to  us  !  "  **  Yes,"  replied  my  mother, 
"  we  must  look  that  in  the  face.  At  our  time  of 
life  that  cannot  be  far  off,"  and,  speaking  in  the  most 
cheerful  tone,  added  :  *'  I  rejoice  to  think  it  is  so.  Is 
it  not  the  entrance  to  what  we  have  been  anticipating 
all  our  lives?  Can  we  not  trust  the  One  who  has 
brought  us  so  far?  He  will  not  fail  us  at  the  last. 
The  thought  of  death  is  any  thing  but  a  gloomy  one 
to  me ;  "  little  dreaming  that  death  was  then  standing 
only  just  outside  the  door. 

On  Wednesday  evening,  January  15,  her  niece 
was  married.  My  mother  had  yielded,  without  ar- 
gument,  to    a    little    more    elaboration    of  lace    and 

trimming  than  usual,  in  her  dress  for  the  occasion, 

n 


1 62  The  Eveniiig  Time. 

saying:  ''It  does  not  seem  necessary  to  me,  but  it 
will  make  you  happier,  and  I  am  content."  Many 
afterward  said  she  had  never  seemed  so  beautiful  as 
on  that  evening.  Her  hair  was  never  gray,  but  dark 
and  waving  as  in  her  youth,  and  she  had  marvellously 
retained  the  delicacy  of  her  complexion,  w^hile  a  life- 
time of  true  thinking  and  noble  living  had  traced  the 
loveliness  of  the  soul  on  every  feature. 

It  had  been  planned  that  she  should  go  up  to 
Andover  the  next  day  to  see  the  portrait  of  her  son 
Lieutenant  Samuel  H.  Thompson,  which  had  been 
painted  the  preceding  summer  for  presentation  at 
the  Phillips'  Centennial.  A  snow-storm  set  in,  which 
grew  heavier,  and  the  inevitable  exposure  of  the 
week  had  somewhat  increased  her  cold  as  well  as 
that  from  which  her  husband  was  suffering,  so  the 
cherished  plan  was  given  up.  But  the  train  which 
carried  her  back  to  Hartford  that  Thursday  was 
taking  her  from  her  last  disappointment. 

When  they  arrived  home  it  was  early  evening,  a 
cold  wind  was  blowing,  and  the  snow  was  falling 
heavily.  Both  husband  and  wife  felt  each  anxious 
for  the  other.  On  leaving  the  car,  Dr.  Thompson 
saw  that  quite  a  depth  of  snow  lay  between  the  door 
of  the  waiting-room  and  the  carriage,  and,  not  daring 
to  have  his  w^ife  step  in  it,  went  before  and  brushed  it 
away  with  his  feet.     As  he  did  it,  he  felt  a  strange 


TJie  Evening  Time.  163 

chill  strike  through  him,  and  remembers  nothing 
more  that  happened  for  many  weeks.  The  next  day 
a  physician  was  called,  and  the  disease  developed  into 
a  serious  case  of  t\'phoid  pneumonia.  The  wife  as- 
serted that  her  cold  was  not  severe,  and  insisted  on 
taking  the  main  care  of  her  husband.  Nothing 
would  induce  her  to  relinquish  the  responsibility 
to  any  one.  She  did  not  express  her  fears  as  to 
his  recovery,  except  in  hints,  and  before  him  kept 
an  even,  cheerful  manner;  but  those  who  watched 
her  saw  the  tears  dropping  down  her  cheeks  while 
she  was  measuring  his  medicines.  Twice  before,  her 
nursing  had  brought  him  back  from  death,  and  it 
was  evident  she  felt  that  he  was  in  peril,  but  that  she 
might  be  able  to  save  him  again.  As  she  was  lying 
down  one  day,  during  that  week,  she  took  up  a  little 
collection  of  Scripture  promises,  **  Words  of  Comfort 
and  Consolation,"  and  began  to  read.  She  felt  her 
self-command  give  way,  and  laid  the  book  down,  shak- 
ing her  head  and  saying :  ''  This  won't  do.  It  won't 
answer  to  have  any  feeling  now."  "  No,  mother," 
said  her  daughter,  *'  we  must  be  sticks  and  stones 
to  be  able  to  go  through."  Well  as  she  knew  her 
mother,  she  was  astonished,  not  onh'  by  her  fortitude 
in  persisting  in  nursing  when  not  really  able  to  sit 
up,  but  at  the  strength  she  summoned  to  control  her 
emotion,  lest  it  should  make  her  less  able  to  serve 
the  dear  one. 


164  The  Evening  Tiine. 

The  last  Scripture  on  her  Hps  was  the  twenty-third 
Psalm,  which  she  recited,  without  faltering,  by  her 
husband's  bedside  on  Saturday  morning. 

The  last  thing  she  read  was  a  sketch  by  Aldrich, 
in  the  November  Atlantic,  "  Our  New  Neighbors  at 
Ponkapog,"  a  charming  little  story  of  the  nest-build- 
ing of  a  pair  of  orioles.  It  effectually  diverted  her 
mind  for  a  half-hour,  and  one  of  the  last  sweet  smiles 
her  daughter  saw  on  her  face  was  w^hen  the  meaning 
of  the  story  flashed  upon  her. 

The   week  wore    on,   and    Saturday  the   sick   one 
seemed  slightly  more  comfortable.     My  mother  in- 
sisted   on    sending    her  daughter    away    for    a    little 
rest,  saying,  "  What  would    become    of   me  if   you 
should  break  down?"     So  rather  than  pain  her  by 
insistence,  she  went.     The  last  person  who  saw  her, 
late  on  Saturday  evening,  after  friends  had  left,  was 
a  faithful  person  on  whom  she  had   long  depended 
for   certain   services.     The  woman  saw  her   look   of 
extreme  exhaustion,  and    begged    to  be    allowed  to 
stay  and  relieve  her  as  far  as  possible  through  the 
nieht.      She   hesitated    a   moment,   as   if  thinking   it 
would  be  a  comfort,  but  then   refused  her   offer,   as 
she  had  that  of  the  lady  with  whom  they  boarded, 
saying:   ''No,  Kate;  Saturday  is  a  hard  day  for  you 
and  Margaret.     You  are  too  tired  and  must  rest.     I 
can  do  it  one  more  night  as  well  as  I  have  before, 


TJie  Evening  Time.  165 

and  then  we  will  see."  That  was  the  end  ;  the  over- 
strained cord  snapped  at  last,  and  when  Mrs.  W. 
came  up  early  on  Sunday  morning,  she  found  my 
mother  partially  unconscious.  Physicians  and  nurse 
were  hastily  summoned,  pronouncing  it  an  aggra- 
vated case  of  typhoid  pneumonia.  So  much  con- 
gestion of  the  brain  accompanied  it,  that  she  felt  no 
pain,  and  was  conscious  of  nothing,  except  a  con- 
tinued care  of  her  husband.  She  would  say  faintly: 
'*  I  must  go  to  him ;  he  needs  me ;  no  one  else  can 
take  care  of  him."  This  lasted  until  Monday,  when 
the  nurse's  assurance  that  she  was  doing  every 
thing  for  him,  and  that  he  was  pleased  with  her  care, 
quieted  her.  "  That  is  good,"  she  said.  "  Then  it  is 
all  right,  all  right,"  and  never  spoke  again,  except 
when  roused  by  a  question. 

The  husband  had  seen  enough  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing to  alarm  him,  and  continued  to  ask  questions  and 
send  messages  to  her,  though  so  low  that  he  re- 
membered nothing  at  all  of  it  after\vard.  **Tell  her," 
he  said,  *' I  would  come  to  her  if  it  were  possible; 
but  if  I  were  there  I  could  not  do  much  for  her.  Say 
to  her,  *  /will  never  leave  thee  nor  forsake  thee  ;  '  and 
another  time  he  said :  "  If  she  has  any  moment  of 
consciousness,  repeat  to  her,  '  Because  I  live  ye  shall 
live  also,'  and  '  Them  also  that  sleep  in  Jesus,  will  God 
bring  with  him.'  "     The  shadow  of  a  smile  crossed  her 


1 66  The  Eveiiijig  Time, 

mouth.  **  Father  sends  many  precious  messages. 
He  says  very  sweet  things,"  said  one,  hoping- for  an 
answer  that  might  be  taken  back.  '*  Very  sweet 
things,"  she  rephed.  "And  ahvays  has?"  ''He  al- 
ways has." 

A  nephew  repeated  to  her  the  verse  in  regard  to 
the  four  men  in  the  fiery  furnace,  *'  And  the  form 
of  the  fourth  was  hke  the  Son  of  God."  She  said 
slowly,  "  As  the  Son  of  Man,  the  Son  of  Man."  Mr. 
H.  repeated  to  her  a  verse  of  Baxter's :  — 

**  My  knowledge  of  that  life  is  small, 
The  eye  of  faith  is  dim ; 
But  't  is  enough  that  Christ  knows  all, 
And  I  shall  be  with  him." 

"  And  that 's  enough,"  she  said. 

On  Wednesday  morning  her  son  came  in  and 
said,  "  Good  morning,  mother."  She  replied,  "  Good 
morning,  my  son,"  evidently  understanding.  Yet 
when  asked  how  she  felt,  she  always  replied,  "  Very 
well,  very  comfortable."  Every  effort  was  made  to 
stimulate  her,  that  she  might  stay  till  her  daughter, 
who  was  on  her  way  from  Kansas,  might  reach  Hart- 
ford. As  that  hope  died  out,  one  said,  "  You  will 
see  Will  and  Sam,  mother,  before  you  see  L."  "Not 
quite  yet,"  she  answered.  "  What  shall  we  tell  her 
when  she  comes?"  She  replied  with  a  message  of 
love,  and  at  four  o'clock  that  afternoon,  January  29, 
she  was  not,  for  God  took  her. 


The  Evening  Time.  167 

In  those  four  days  she  had  not  felt  pain.  At  the 
last  it  seemed  like  translation  rather  than  death,  and 
no  one  who  loved  her  has  since  been  able  to  think  of 
her  otherwise  than  as  going  on  with  some  ministry  of 
love,  in  a  life  of  which  she  used  to  say  her  anticipation 
was  that  it  would  be  "  activity  without  weariness." 

*'  Say  ye  to  the  righteous,  It  shall  be  well  with 
him,"  was  the  message  sent  that  week  by  her  friend, 
Mrs.  R. ;  and  the  thought  of  every  heart  was,  "  She  is 
with  Christ,  which  is  far  better." 

A  merciful  deafness  had  suddenly  seized  her  hus- 
band, so  that  he  was  shielded  from  the  hint  of  those 
last  scenes,  suspecting  enough  to  occasion  his  rapidly 
growing  worse,  but  not  knowing  what  had  passed  till 
many  weeks  later. 

The  precious  form  was  laid  in  his  room  at  the 
Seminary,  that  all  might  be,  as  soon  as  possible, 
quiet  in  the  house,  where  he  lay  hovering  between 
life  and  death.  The  next  morning  thirty  years  had 
slipped  away  from  her,  and  her  face  was  that  of  the 
matron  of  forty,  lovely,  and  lighted  up  as  with  some 
peaceful  and  grand  thought. 

She  lay  where  her  husband's  portrait  could  look 
down  upon  her,  and  the  faces  of  the  sons  who  had 
been  waiting  for  her.  Her  white  hands,  with  the  shin- 
ing wedding-ring,  seemed  to  speak,  —  those  blessed 
hands  that  had  ''  done  good,  and  not  evil,  all  the  days 
of  her  life." 


1 68  The  Eventing  Time. 

Never  were  the  callas  and  the  heads  of  wheat 
more  fitly  offered  than  to  her,  nor  the  white  hhes-of- 
the-valley,  which  she  held  in  her  hand. 

It  was  a  sweet  thought  in  one  friend,  to  have  bits 
of  sea- moss  woven  with  the  wreath  of  roses  which 
she  sent. 

The  last  services  were  held  on  Friday  afternoon. 
It  was  at  the  moment  when  Dr.  Daggett  was  offering 
prayer,  and  all  hearts  were  uniting  in  his  petition  for 
the  recovery  of  him  who  was  so  anxiously  watched 
in  his  sick-room  that  afternoon,  that  a  slightly  favor- 
able change  was  noticed  in  him.  He  fell  into  a  quiet 
sleep,  and  the  fatal  sinking  was  checked. 

A  choir  of  students  sang  the  chant,  — 

"  Abide  with  me,  fast  falls  the  eventide, 
The  darkness  deepens ;  Lord,  with  me  abide. 
When  other  helpers  fail  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless !  oh,  abide  with  me." 

falling  with  singular  sweetness  on  the  ears  of  those 
who  were  beginning  to  feel  what  it  would  be  to  miss 
such  love  as  hers  out  of  a  selfish  and  fickle  world. 
**  We  ought  to  dry  our  tears,"  said  Professor  Riddle, 
"  and  then  we  shall  see  how  rounded  and  symmetri- 
cal was  her  character,  and  how  grand  a  thing  it  is  in 
this  sorrowing  world  to  believe  in  Jesus  Christ,  the 
Resurrection  and  the  Life ;  to  take  all  as  He  says  it, 
and  because  He  says  it,  and  thus  to  live  in  hope," 


The  Evening  Time,  169 

Many  tributes  were  called  out  by  her  death.  A 
friend  of  the  Seminary  wrote :  — 

"  In  the  removal  of  Mrs.  Thompson's  personal  pres- 
ence, our  first  thought  is  of  the  loss  we  sustain.  But  our 
second  thought  is  better.  There  is  no  loss.  Her  life  is 
built  into  this  Seminary.  It  is  a  foundation  stone  that  has 
risen  up  as  the  walls  of  superstructure  have  grown  higher 
and  higher.  All  the  way  up  from  the  beginning  we  have 
been  building  on  it  and  building  with  it;  and  never  while 
the  Institute  lasts  can  that  life  crumble  out  of  the  space  in 
which  we  have  laid  it. 

"  Could  our  wishes  have  prevailed,  we  would  have  de- 
layed her  going  till  she  had  seen  with  mortal  eye  the  com- 
pletion of  the  new  Hall,  and  mingled  her  voice  with  ours 
in  the  shoutings  of  '  Grace,  grace  unto  it ! '  But  our  com- 
fort is  the  thought  that,  as  it  is,  she  shall  behold  it  from  a 
far  better  vantage-ground  than  ours. 

"  If  there  were  any  place  for  tears  in  connection  with 
such  a  departure,  we  would  let  them  fall  over  the  loneli- 
ness now  flung  upon  the  life  so  long  intertwined  with  hers. 
But  our  venerated  father  and  friend  has  a  more  precious 
sympathy  than  any  we  can  give  him.  He  knows  that  a 
little  farther  along  the  now  parted  streams  will  unite  again 
to  flow  eternally  on  together.  Meantime  we  pledge  him 
the  cheap  consolation  of  our  sympathy,  and  invoke  for  him 
the  priceless  sympathy  of  Him  who  wept  at  the  grave  of 
Bethany. 

"The  household  that  once  was  so  gladsome  and  bright 
is  sadly  darkened  now.  One  light  after  another  has  gone 
out  of  it,  and  the  shadows  of  death  and  change  have 
gathered  densely  around  it.  But  the  dawn  of  a  new  and 
brighter  day  is  breaking.  The  reunion  of  these  scattered 
members  has  already  begun,  and  will  go  steadily  on  under 


1 70  The  Evening  Time. 

the  Master's  wise  ordering,  till  at  length,  no  loved  one 
missing,  they  shall  be  encircled  in  the  arms  of  an  ever- 
lasting life. 

"  There  are  precious  memories  clustering  around  this 
school  of  the  prophets.  More  than  one  of  the  saints 
whose  names  the  Church  cannot  and  will  not  willingly  let 
die,  have  hallowed  it  by  their  labors  and  their  love,  and 
now  on  the  roll  of  these,  with  sadness,  and  yet  with  glad- 
ness, we  write  lovingly  and  tenderly  the  name  of  Eliza 
Butler  Thompson." 

''  She  \vas  a  woman,"  said  another,  ''  of  noteworthy 
qualities  that  commanded  respect  and  kindled  affec- 
tion. To  a  native,  sunny  kindliness,  to  a  cheerful, 
courageous  hopefulness,  to  a  stanch  conscientious- 
ness, she  added  no  small  executive  energy  and  force 
of  thinking.  A  delightful  sense  of  wholesomeness 
characterized  her,  an  ingenuous  straightforwardness, 
and  a  tenacity  of  conviction  that  held  its  ground 
until  there  w^as  occasion  for  abandoning  it.  Her 
fervor  of  thought  was  largely  influenced  by  the  great 
Edwards,  who  was  once  a  pastor  in  her  native  town. 
The  framework  of  her  theology  was  garlanded  by 
loving  deeds,  and  perfumed  by  the  exquisite  blos- 
soms of  self-sacrifice.  Such  truthful  constancy,  such 
guileless  sincerity,  such  single-hearted  devotion  to 
truth  and  humanity,  such  loving,  thoughtful  interest 
and  sacrifice  for  kindred  and  friends,  reassure  us 
that  there  is  still  something  of  the  divine  in  human 
life,  that  grand   realities  are  still  to  be  found  amidst 


The  Evejiing  Time.  171 

all  its  hollow  insincerities.  Those  who  knew  Mrs. 
Thompson  will  cherish  her  memory  as  among  the 
precious  treasures  of  the  heart." 

In  Michael  Angelo's  painting  of  The  Three  Fates," 
the  face  of  the  one  who  presides  over  the  beginning 
of  human  life  is  scowling,  terrified,  and  hesitant.  The 
second,  who  weaves  the  web,  has  a  look  of  grand 
patience,  as  of  one  moving  steadily  under  a  heavy 
load,  an  expression  of  force  concentrated  on  endur- 
ance and  watchfulness ;  a  kind  of  solemn  awe,  as  if 
there  was  something  to  hope  and  much  to  fear. 
Atropos,  holding  out  the  shears  and  seeming  to 
restrain  herself  only  by  the  greatest  tension,  from 
cutting  the  thread  before  the  prescribed  instant,  turns 
her  face  in  the  direction  opposite  to  that  in  which  the 
others  look,  and  sees  what  inspires  her  with  trium- 
phant eagerness.  ''  At  last,"  her  face  says,  "  it  is  time 
for  joy,  a  bounding  into  exultant  freedom,  unhin- 
dered progress,  and   everlasting  life," 

"  Blessed  are  they  who  are  called  to  the  marriage 
supper." 

In  the  paper  which  my  mother  left,  designating 
mementos  for  different  members  of  the  family,  she 
added,  as  if  to  give  one  more  smile  to  those  who 
would  read  it  after  she  had  gone,  *'  In  the  words  of 
old  '  Valiant*  for  Truth,'  I  leave  my  sword  to  those 
who  come  after,  and  my  courage  and  skill  to  him 
that  can  get  it." 


172  The  Evening  Time, 

She  closed  by  saying :  "  God  has  given  to  us  all  the 
prospect  of  a  blessed  reunion  in  the  heavenly  inher- 
itance, where  two  of  the  number  are  waiting  in  sure 
and  certain  hope.  May  the  dear  grandchildren,  the 
crowning  mercy  of  our  lives,  be  all  included  in  the 
sure  bundle  of  eternal  life.  The  Lord  grant  it  in  his 
time.     To  Him  all  the  future  is  committed." 

Under  her  name,  on  the  family  monument  at 
Cedar  Hill,  are  the  words, 

"  Present  with  the  Lord." 

"  For  all  thy  saints  who  from  their  labors  rest, 
Who  thee,  by  faith,  before  the  world  confessed, 
Thy  name,  O  Jesus,  be  forever  blessed. 

"  Thou  wast  their  Rock,  their  Fortress,  and  their  Might, 
Thou,  Lord,  their  Leader  in  the  well-fought  fight, 
Thou,  in  the  darkness  drear,  the  Light  of  light. 

"  The  golden  evening  brightens  in  the  west, 
Soon,  soon  to  faithful  warriors  comes  the  rest, 
Sweet  is  the  calm  of  Paradise  the  blest." 

"  Give  us  grace  so  to  follow  their  good  example, 
that  with  them  we  may  be  partakers  of  thy  heav- 
enly kingdom." 


University  Press  :  John  Wilson  &  Son,  Canibridsfe. 


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